Time Heals Nothing
by Rowen-Bells
Summary: Time has not completely healed Tobias. But it's on the anniversary of when it happened, that he is forced to look at himself and the idea of moving on. Can he? *Divergent series spoilers*
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _As many of you know, I am waiting for my own laptop to be fixed so that I can continue writing City of the Unknown (hopefully next month!). During that time, I read the Divergent series and fell in love with it. I then decided to comandeer my husbands laptop and write this little thing here. I dont know if it is something I will continue or not, or if it will remain a One-shot. We'll see when I get my own laptop back. Either way, I want to say that if you have not read all 3 books, do NOT read this! Also, if you have read them, and decide to read this, I hope you enjoy it. Please let me know what you think! I dont own Divergent or their characters. _

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**~Chapter One~  
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It has been a year and a half since I stood on top of the Hancock building. Since I had faced my fear of heights just so that I could spread the ashes of the woman I loved more than my own life—Tris. More than my own fears. I remembered the time I had taken her through my fear simulation, how angry I had become when Marcus, who was not really Marcus, had hit her with the belt. How in that moment, I knew I could overcome that fear because I would rather get hit a hundred times with that belt than to ever watch her get hit with it once. Not that it mattered, because she was not with me anymore. I had failed in keeping her safe from the only person I couldn't ever keep her safe from; herself. I blamed myself for a long time for that. Had I just stayed . . . had I not left her side . . . would she still be alive? I don't blame myself anymore, but it was not without help. It has been four years since she died—since I held her in my arms. And while the years have made it easier, have dulled my senses, my nights alone have not. While I'm awake, it's easy to laugh and move and talk about her. Easier than it had been even a year ago. Sure, I still saw Tris in the faces of those around me, and I'm starting to think I always will, but even that is becoming less painful. I would even say I might be ready to move on, to open myself to the idea of being with someone else.

But my subconscious is not so relenting.

I dream about her every night.

Sometimes I dread the idea of sleeping just because I know what it means. How could I possibly move on if I can't get her out of my head long enough to dream of something—_anything_—else? The dreams about her range from blissful to nightmarish. The worst one being that I am there in the room with her when David shoots her. That I stand in front of her, trying desperately to shield her, but the bullets pass through me as if I were a ghost. Because of the memory serum, David swore he could not remember the exact details of what happened in that room four years ago, so my dreams always run wild with scenarios. Sometimes he comes in and shoots her right after she sets off the memory serum, but before he is affected . . . and other times he is already in there, waiting for her as she enters. She would lunge for the box, I would shield her, and she would get shot anyway. No matter what the beginning scenario is, however, it always ends the same: I hold her in my arms and cry as she dies. Sometimes she would cry too, and other times she would make fun of my tears in her attempt to lighten the mood. "Dauntless don't cry," she would say. "Dauntless don't fear death, we embrace it." But that wasn't true. There had been no death I had ever feared more than hers. On the nights I have nightmares I always wake with a scream on my lips and a cold sweat covering my body, unable to move.

And then there were the blissful dreams that were, to me, almost worse than the nightmares. I guess, in their own rights, they are nightmares. They are the dreams of what could have been. Me and her married and raising our own children, or me and her alone in a room, our bodies pressed unabashedly against each other. We never got enough time alone, and these dreams made sure we got it. I'll wake, still feeling her against me—feeling her lips against my mine, and the ache inside at knowing it wasn't real will send me into a downward spiral of tears, anger, and pain. It is those dreams that make me wish I had not listened to Christina and had drank the memory serum. But Christina had been right; that would have been the last thing Tris would have wanted. Such an act of cowardess would have been an insult to her memory. But then again, Christina never has to wake from those kinds of dreams. And neither does Tris.

My mother moved out of my apartment about six months ago, having found her own place nearby. Even though I knew that she had not liked Tris in the beginning, she had helped make the transition without her somewhat easier for me. She never spoke an ill word against her, not that I would have allowed it, but she didn't let me wallow either. Christina was another surprise for me. She has probably become my closest friend since everything has ended the way it did. She was able to help me accept Tris's death in a way that I had not thought I could. While she and Will had never had the same kind of relationship that Tris and I had, it was no less hard for her to lose him. And then she had lost Uriah too. It occurred to me early on that it was because of both me and Tris that Christina had lost the two men in her life that she had cared for, and yet her loyalty and friendship never wavered with either of us, though it should have. She had found it in her heart to forgive us both.

"I thought I might find you here."

I look up at Christina who is standing on the open platform of the moving train, her hand wrapped around a bar while behind her the background passes in a blur. Her chest is rising and falling under the loose yellow shirt she wears at the exertion of jumping onto the train. I hadn't even noticed her jump on, and I can't say I'm incredibly happy to see her here. Today is the one day that I prefer to be alone, and until now I always have been.

"Yep," I say. "Here I am. Were you looking for me?"

"Yes. Well, not really. Not at first." She says, wiping her hands on her blue jeans and coming to sit down next to me. "But tag, you're it." She bumps her shoulder into mine as she says it. I raise my brow, looking at her. She wears a smile, but it's only halfhearted and doesn't reach her eyes.

It was about a month ago that I started to let myself think about how strong; both physically and emotionally Christina is. How brave she is. Zeke had once made a comment about hooking up with her, but I had merely laughed and changed the subject—something he noticed and gratefully went with. The idea of "hooking up" with Christina is foreign to me. And it isn't the idea of loving her that is foreign either—I already do love her. It's the idea of loving her like I love Tris—loving _anyone_ like I love Tris. I frown at that last thought. Though it shouldn't surprise me that I still love Tris, it does. I shift uncomfortably.

"So what's up?" I ask. I know that her saying that she _thought_ she might find me here was not necessarily the truth. She knew I would be here. In fact, she is the only one who knows I still ride the trains. Though, it is now only once a year that I do so. She also knows it is something I do alone. Though I try, I can't hide the impatience in my voice; my desire to be by myself plain on my face.

"Four years ago, today." she says, ignoring what I know she can see, and I cringe inward saying nothing. This was why she was here? I watch with clenched fists as she leans forward and slips a small black backpack from her shoulders. I hadn't noticed it was there. Setting it between her feet, she unzips it and pulls out two small glasses and a bottle of unopened amber liquid. The sticker on the front has since faded with time, but I know what it is. I watch as she expertly fills the two glasses to the rim, impressed as even with the movement of the train, she doesn't spill a drop. She seems to notice this and smiles, handing me one of the glasses. "My parents have had this bottle since before I can remember. In fact, I believe if I had grandparents, they would have had it. They always said it was for a special occasion. They would kill me if I spilled even a drop."

"And this is a special occasion?" I ask, keeping my tone as neutral as I can to hide both my surprise; I'm sure the Candor could have found use for this by now, and my irritation at anyone calling today of all days a special occasion. "Or," I say, looking at her. "Do they not know you took it?"

Christina simply smiles. A Candor telling a lie? I shake my head. Some things are harder to get used to than the habits that are hard to break. Christina lifts her glass to me, her eyes piercing my dark blue ones, and says. "Almost five years ago, I transferred from my faction. It wasn't easy, but while I was there, I made friends and even found love. There was one person that would change my life forever, though. At first, I wasn't sure if this change was good or bad, but as time went on I saw that it was for the good. That this person was the bravest, smartest, and most selfless person I would ever have the honor of meeting and calling my best friend—Beatrice Prior. Four years ago today, Tris performed the truest act of selflessness anyone could ever do. She gave her life so that others could live."

Christina's voice breaks, and I look up at her. Was it selfish of me, or perhaps just plain stupidity, to think that I was the only one affected by today? That I was the only one who was touched by Tris? I frown at the amber liquid in my hand and then up at the one Christina still holds in the air. She slowly lowers it, and uses her free hand to wipe away a stray tear that had broken free from her eyes.

"Look," she says, meeting my eyes fiercely. "I know, probably better than anyone that you prefer to be alone today. And I understand better than anyone, why that is." She is turning the glass nervously in her fingers now. "The rest of us usually honor Tris today by taking the zip-line, but—"

"You do?" I interrupt, surprised. Though she had said "us" I only focus on her. I could already imagine who the rest that joined her are, but the idea that anyone besides Christina does anything to honor Tris today chokes me up in a way that I'm not ready to confront just yet. Christina nods, noticing my choice word, and smiles through watery eyes that threaten to spill over.

"You aren't the only one that still grieves her death," she says. "But today . . . today as I was getting ready to head over there to join the others, I saw something. And I knew I couldn't be with them."

"What did you see?" I ask.

"It's was nothing . . . something stupid really," she says, looking down now.

Reaching forward, I catch her chin with my fingers and lift her eyes to meet mine. "Nothing is stupid today."

"I saw her. Tris." She whispers, and I drop my hand, my eyes going wide. "Well of course it wasn't really her," she continues hastily. "The woman I saw had dark ebony hair and she was . . . you know . . . fuller chested." My face flushes at her bluntness. "But her eyes . . . it was those same piercing blue eyes that Tris has—had. And then the woman turned away from me, and it was like I lost Tris all over again. I knew then that today I couldn't be with people who only think about her once a year. I needed to be with someone who still see's her in the faces of others every day. I needed to know that I'm not alone."

I say nothing to this. How could she possibly know that I saw Tris every day? But then, maybe I'm not that surprised. Only Christina was attuned to me enough to catch my small gasps when I saw a blond head bouncing my way, or when a small petite frame turned just right. I know her pain all too well, even after four years. I look down at the untouched glass in my hand as I chew on my lip. I raise it.

"To Tris."

It's all I can say. I tip the warm liquid into my mouth and swallow it in one gulp, relishing the burn in my throat and the warmth in my stomach as it makes its way down. When I lower the glass I see that Christina has drained her own glass as well. She holds out her hand expectantly, and I hand her my glass. It doesn't take long before half the alcohol is gone and Christina is launching into stories about Tris that I didn't know. Most of them were during their initiation into Dauntless. And while some of the stories she tells me are funny, others are . . . not so much. In fact, had I known about some of the things Christina tells me now, I may not have let Peter drink that memory serum.

"No one helped us, you know." Christina says now, pulling her knees to her chest and staring out the open compartment to the setting sun. But I know it's not the sunset she's seeing. "To be honest, I didn't even want to help her at first. At first I just watched as she scrubbed at the blood on the floor. Everyone else had left by then. But she stayed, cleaning up Edward's blood as if she herself had been responsible for what had happened to him. I stayed because I could see how important it was to her." She looks at me, and even in the amber rays of the setting sun, I can see the flush on her cheeks. "That's the kind of person she was."

And then she begins crying. Setting the empty glass down, I scoot closer to her and put my arm around her shoulders, bringing her into my chest. My jaw tightens as my eyesight becomes blurry. It dawns on me that Christina is the only one who could possibly understand what I'm feeling, and somehow in the last four years I had missed that. Looking back, I realize that she had never once told me to get over it or to move on. She never tried to convince me that Tris would want me to be happy with someone else. She had only just made sure she was there for me when I needed her most. And now, even though it was today, it was her that needed me. Perhaps I even needed her today too and had just not realized it.

When her cries have dissolved into hiccups, she pulls away from me and wipes at her eyes. "Sorry, I—"

I put my hand up to stop her. "No need to apologize."

She turns to look out the open compartment of the train. "We're going to need to jump soon," she says. It surprises me that with as much alcohol as we've drunk, both of us still seem rather level headed. I agree and get to my feet, stumbling slightly. Okay, only kinda level headed. From the floor, Christina raises her hand to me and I take it, helping her to her feet. I let go once she finds her balance. Together we stand on the edge of the open car, looking out.

"Here," she says looking at me as she slips her hand back into mine. I raise my brow, looking down at our entwined fingers. "I just . . . can't do it unless someone drags me." I meet her eyes again and see a small tear trailing down the worn path on her cheek. I understand then. I don't know how it is I understand, but I do and I don't question it.

"Together then," I smile. "One . . . two . . . three!"

And we jump. Had it not been for the alcohol, we might have even landed on our feet. Or, you know, been able to determine that we were jumping onto a hill. Together we turn, bounce, and roll over one another with loud gasps and grunts. I hiss as my eyebrow hits a rock. After what seems like an endless amount of tumbling, and with one final gasp, I come to a stop right on top of Christina. I lay there for a moment, breathing in her hair and skin. Though I can feel her breathing, it dawns on me that she hasn't moved since I landed on her. I push myself up on my hands and look down at her. Her eyes are wide, and there is a light scratch across her cheek.

"Are you okay?" I ask, my brow furrowing as I look her over for any other injuries.

She nods. Tentatively, she reaches up and runs a finger lightly along my brow. I wince slightly at the pain in my head as my heart hammers in my chest. I'm not sure if my heart is erratic from the the jump, or from the alcohol. When she pulls her hand away, I see my blood on her fingers. She looks amused now, and the spark in her eyes hold mine captive. I am suddenly all too aware that I am lying on top of her, that our legs are tangled together, and that with each breath she takes, her breast push against my chest. It is then that I am able to entertain a third reason for my elevated heart rate. Christina: The girl who was Tris's best friend, and who is now my best friend. The girl who never pushed me to heal or to get better.

I don't think.

Bringing my head down, I press my mouth against hers and I feel her lips part as she gasps in surprise. That's enough to bring me to my senses. I pull away quickly and roll off of her. "I'm sorry," I say quickly. I press my face between my legs, covering the back of my head with my arms. What the hell was I doing anyway? I ask myself. She's your friend. She's _Tris's_ friend. I hear Christina moving next to me, and I focus on the ground I'm sitting on. I focus on the smell of the dirt, letting it engulf my every being. When my heart slows, I still can't bring myself to look up.

"I can't be Tris." She whispers. The words hurt more than the tumble from the train. I look at her sitting next to me, and though she is looking straight ahead, her body is relaxed. She doesn't seem like she's upset, but the tone of her words couldn't hide the sadness in them.

"I—" I stammer. "I don't want you to be Tris." I say.

"I know," she smiles sadly. "But right now, Tris is still what you want. And, Tobias . . . I can't be her, because I'm not her. And I won't be her."

I say nothing because there is nothing to say to that. I don't know if her words are necessarily true or not, but it wouldn't be fair to her until I do know. Her unspoken message is clear, though. She won't push me to heal or get over Tris, but she won't be second to her either.

"Thank you for jumping with me," Christina says now, climbing to her feet and dusting off her jeans. Her voice is light. "I don't know if Tris ever told you, but I said those same words to her right before we jumped onto the Dauntless rooftop during initiation."

I smile, relieved that she's not allowing what just happened to become awkward. "A Candor asked an Abnegation to help her jump?" I tease.

"Are you kidding?" She laughs, reaching down and pulling me up by my elbow. "The fact that she was a transfer from Abnegation was enough to tell me she was a force to be reckoned with right away. I was very aware, even then, that before her, only one other had transferred from Abnegation in more than a decade."

"Wonder who that could have been," I joke.

"Oh," she smiles as we begin walking back toward the city. "From what I hear, his name was Four, and he was a complete badass. Strong and attractive. Another force to be reckoned with."

"Really?" I grin, throwing a sideways glance at her. I had never stopped to wonder what Christina thought of me on a personal level. "So . . . did you ever hear what became of him?"

Christina stops and turns to me with a frown. Reaching forward, she takes my hands in hers and refuses to let me look away. "Four years ago, he fell into a coma."

It feels like my heart has dropped into my stomach. I swallow, unable to look away from her piercing gaze. A coma? Is that how she sees me? And then I can't help but wonder; if that's how she sees me, how do the others see me? All this time I thought I was doing well . . . thought that I was getting pieces of myself back . . . have I been fooling myself this whole time? Christina's frown deepens, causing lines to crease her young face. She shouldn't have stress lines. She's only twenty-one.

"Don't look so shocked," she says. "Even a badass can crumble." And then she smiles wide. "Besides, the strangest thing happened."

"What's that," I mumble, unsure I want to hear more.

"Well," she grins, leaning in as if to tell me a big secret. "I heard that today, he showed his first signs of life." Popping to her toes, she kisses my cheek and then turns and lopes away, calling over her shoulder as she goes. "Who knows? Maybe he's waking up!"

I stare after her as she puts distance between us with each step. She wasn't Tris. Everything about Christina is so incredibly opposite of Tris. But maybe she's right. Maybe I'm almost there. I don't want her to be Tris, I just want to make sure that I don't want Tris when I do want her. I shake my head, wondering if that made sense. Shrugging, I take off after Christina. We walk the majority of the way back to the city in silence, both of us lost in our own thoughts. Every once in awhile, I catch her looking at me, but she looks away quickly each time. I have to admit, I walked a little taller. By the time we reach her apartment, the sun has set and the night has taken over. I wait next to her as she fumbles with her keys and opens the door.

"Thank you for allowing me to join you today," Christina says, leaning against the door jam. "I know that you prefer to be alone during this time."

"You know, it's funny," I smile. "I didn't mind it as much as I thought I was going to."

Christina rolls her eyes, but her face lights up with a smile. "Gee, thanks."

"Of course! I only want to provide a Candor with honesty, after all." I grin.

Christina shoves me back playfully, laughing. "Goodnight, Tobias."

"Goodnight." I stand there and watch as she disappears inside, the door closing slowly behind her. Reaching out suddenly, I catch it and prevent it from shutting. "Christina?"

Christina's slim fingers curl around the wooden door, pulling it back open. She has already pulled her dark hair out of the ponytail it had been in, and her soft brown eyes watch me curiously. It is then that I notice just how lustrous the yellow shirt makes her mocha skin look. Soft and warm; inviting. I look down at my fumbling hands, unsure.

I swallow. "How . . . how will I know?"

It's all I can get out, but as I look up at her, I know she understands. Pulling the door open abruptly, Christina walks out of it and wraps me in her arms with such vigor that I'm forced to take a step back to keep my balance. I can feel my heart racing again, and even though I had taken initiative out on the hill and kissed her, I hesitate now in returning her hug. Slowly though, I wrap my arms around her and hold her to me. I've hugged Christina before, but never like this. It was both intimate, and not. Part of me wonders if she's trying to comfort me, which my instincts naturally want to repel, while another part of me wants to hold her tighter. Before I can decide, she pulls away and my hands immediately fall to my sides.

"I was always taught that the heart is an organ and nothing more. That _that_ is the scientific truth." She says, and I frown. I'm not sure what this has to do with my question, but I say nothing as she continues. "A heart can't feel any emotion. A heart can't break." She sighs and leans against the wall behind her. "But I know for a fact that this is not true. I remember how my heart fluttered like a butterfly when Will kissed me. And I remember how it plummeted lifelessly into my stomach when I learned of his death." She looks speculative at me, and I shift uncomfortably. I don't have to say it, because she already knows that I am well aware of what she is describing. I have felt it myself. I still feel it; late at night and deep in my sleep when I get Tris alive and whole to myself. Christina smiles sadly. "I have also felt the sting of betrayal pierce my heart because of my own thoughts."

I look at her in confusion. "I don't understand."

Pushing herself off the wall, she presses her palm against my chest and I have to resist the sudden urge to bat it away. I feel like a rollercoaster: leave me alone, don't leave me; touch me, don't touch me; kiss me, don't hug me. What is wrong with me? I wonder if she noticed my shudder. If she did, she doesn't say anything.

"You want to know how you'll know when you're ready to move on?" she asks. "You'll know when your heart decides it does not feel guilty anymore."

"But . . ." I think of how to put into words what I want to say. I look down at her hand on my chest. "Christina, you've already helped me to stop blaming myself for her death. I don't feel guilty over that anymore." I don't know what I expected to see when I looked back up at her, but it wasn't the blank face that stared back at me now. No, not blank . . . carefully masked. She was trying to hide something from me.

"Tobias," she sighs, dropping her hand. I can still feel the warmth of her palm through my shirt though. She shakes her head. "Sometimes, I swear I don't know how it is you can be so smart and yet . . ." her voice dies away. "Just trust me when I say that your heart will know when you're ready before you do."

With that, she backs away and disappears behind her door. I don't try to stop it from closing this time, and I stand there and listen to the lock slide into place. I rake my hand roughly through my short hair and sigh as I head home. A short time later, I shut my own door and lock it. I sit on my couch, staring at the floor and wondering what Christina could have possibly meant. My heart is a part of me. The logical part of me even argues that it is the brain that causes the feeling of emotions, and if I decide I'm ready to move on it will not be because my heart told me so. I rub at my eyes. Such a strange day today. But then, today has never been ordinary. It was nice having Christina with me though, and I find myself wondering what she thought of my abrasive kiss. I also wonder what Tris would have thought of it.

I gasp.

Clutching at my chest, my breath becomes shallow as I realize exactly what it is Tris would think. I remember so clearly her reaction to Nita, and I had never wanted Nita. Christina is her friend—_was_ her friend. Is, was, does it matter? I begin hitting my head with my clasped fingers as I rock back and forth. How could I do this to Tris? Dead or not, she deserves better of me! I bite my lip and curl up on the couch, shaking. I finally understand all too soon, and all too well, what Christina was trying to explain. The guilt is overwhelming. How could I possibly move on if this is what I would feel every time I tried? This crippling, heart wrenching pain. Covering my face, I begin to cry.

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_Again, please let me know what you think, so I know whether I should continue it :)_


	2. Chapter 2

**_A/N:_**_Thank you for all the encouragement to continue this story! I truly appreciate it. I want to give a warning that this chapter has more mature language, so . . . yeah. I hope you like it! Please let me know what you think :)_

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**~Chapter Two~  
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_She walks toward me, her blonde hair shimmering in the sun. She is alive and whole and so breathtakingly beautiful. But I know this is a dream, because she is not alive and whole. I know that I should not take her in my arms, that I should not press my lips against hers, and that I should not get lost in the beauty of her face. I know, at least on some level, the pain this will cause me when I wake up, but I can't bring myself to care. And in that moment, I do take her in my arms. I do press my lips against hers, and I do get lost in the beauty of her face. I shiver with longing as her hands run along my back—as her fingers slip through my belt loops, and as she pulls me firmly against her, her mouth crushing hungrily against mine._

_"Tris," I whisper against her lips, curling my fingers in her hair. God, how I miss doing that. "I miss you." _

_"I know." she whispers as a reply. "I miss you, too." _

_I look down at her. "It's been four years, Tris. Four years since you died. Am I crazy for still not being over you?" I ask. _

_"Think." She says with a smile. _

_I furrow my brow. "Think? Think of what?" I ask. "You? I think of you all the time, Tris. That's the problem. Four years and I still can't seem to let you go and I don't know why. I'm sure this can't be normal." _

_Tris still wears her smile like she didn't hear a word I just said. "Think," she urges again. But before I can question her further, her eyes grow wide and she looks around nervously. It is only then that I notice our surroundings. The grass here is way too green and the buildings are way too pristine. The windows are not broken like many of them are now, and they reflect the overly bright sunlight on us. It hurts my eyes. Maybe this was what our city looked like before the Purity War. When I look back at Tris, she is looking up at me. "Never enough time," she breathes, and then quickly reaches up and wraps her arms around my neck."Think, Four." She crushes her lips to mine just as the loud pop of bullets fill the air._

I bolt upright as another round of gunfire goes off. Shit! My heart is hammering as I roll off the couch and press myself against the floor. I begin to crawl toward the end table where I keep a loaded gun hidden when I hear the gunfire again, only this time . . . this time, it doesn't sound quite like gunfire. In fact, it doesn't sound like gunfire at all now. Rolling onto my back, I feel my face flush and I'm happy that no one is around to witness what I had just done. And I don't even want to think about the amount of teasing I would get if someone had. Pulling myself to my feet, I cross to the front door where another series of pounding reverberates from the oak wood. This had better be an emergency or I'm punching whoever is on the other side. Unlocking the door, I irritably yank it open.

"Man, you look like shit!"

My fist snaps forward and connects painfully with the person in front of me.

"Ow!" Zeke cries out, rubbing his arm. "Shit, Four! Why the hell did you do that?" He is one of the very few that still call me by my Dauntless name. I can tell he's trying to sound upset, but the grin on his face is a contradiction to his tone. "Don't you know I bruise like a peach?" he asks.

"Good," I smirk. "That's what you get for interrupting my beauty sleep."

Zeke snorts. "Man, either you need a few more hours or a refund. What happened to your eye?"

Instead of answering, I make a rude hand gesture at him before turning and walking back into my front room. I leave the door open behind me. I can hear Zeke laughing as he shuts it and follows. My apartment is still as sparsely furnished as it had been on the first day I moved in, but I don't mind. I prefer it this way. Less to clean. Throwing myself back on the couch, I prop my feet up and rub my brow where I had hit it on the rock yesterday after the ill-timed jump with Christina. My heart lurches at the thought of her name, and guilt begins to creep over me. Biting the inside of my cheek like I had done as a child, I press down on the cut over my eye and focus on the pain. It's definitely tender and probably bruised. I'm also sure that I'm making it worse, but the pain helps to ebb away the guilt. Only when I'm positive that the guilt from my actions yesterday isn't going to strangle me, I relax and allow my hands to rest on my stomach as I watch Zeke grab one of the mismatched chairs from the kitchen and bring it into the living room. He turns it backwards and straddles it, resting his arms across the back. Zeke was the first one of Uriah's family members to forgive me for his death. It had taken him all of two hours to do so, though it took a bit longer for the unspoken awkwardness between us to dissipate.

"What's up?" I ask. "Do I have parking tickets I'm unaware of?"

Zeke's brows knit together with confusion. "Parking what?"

I laugh. Zeke is the captain of the police force in the city—a job he took effortlessly to. In fact, he has had no problems at all with transitioning to our new way of life now that the factions were gone. It's like he is made for this new world we are creating. "Parking tickets," I say again. "Back before the Purity War, that's what the police did—stuck pieces of paper on cars that weren't parked properly."

"Are you bullshitting me?" he asks, his eyes skeptical as he cocks a brow.

"Nope. Read it in an old history book that Matthew sent me from the Bureau." I smile as he frowns.

"And what was the point of these tickets?" He asks.

I laugh. Were we really discussing parking tickets? "They were just a police man's way of letting the owner know that his car was either parked incorrectly or parked in the same spot for too long."

"Oh!" Zeke says with comprehension. "Like a stern note."

I bite back the laughter and look him dead in the eye. "Yes." I say with conviction. "Exactly like that." Zeke is quiet for a moment as he contemplates what I said, and I roll my eyes hoping he doesn't see my body shaking with laughter. When I'm sure my silent laughing fit is over, I look up at him and see that he is looking down at the floor deep in thought. I revert back to my original question. "So what's up?"

"Oh yeah!" he says, sitting up straighter with a smile. "We've reached it."

I spring into a sitting position instantly, my eyes open wide and my heart racing. Since the slaughter of the Abnegation by the mind controlled Dauntless, little had been done about the neighborhoods that were hit the hardest and had received the worst amount of damage. This was partly due to the pesky fact that we had all been on the run. However, once everything had settled down one of the first things Johanna pushed for as a new government official was to start getting the destroyed neighborhoods cleaned up, and salvaging what could be salvaged. One of the first problems Johanna faced as a new government official was the refusal of the remaining Abnegation to allow this to happen. They saw these neighborhoods as sacred grounds. Quite frankly, I was just surprised to see so many of the Abnegation people refuse to allow someone to do something. Apparently being hunted and massacred had changed their outlook on some things—including how far they let their selflessness go. It took a lot of negotiating on Johanna's part, who insisted that cleaning up the destruction would inevitably help them heal. She also suggested building a memorial for them. It took a couple years, but six months ago they finally agreed. Johanna had put together a group right then and went to work that very day. Six months later, and they had barely made a dent in the devastation that that one moment had caused.

Zeke, and many other Dauntless, being overwhelmed with the guilt of being the ones that caused the destruction, had volunteered all the time they could to helping when they heard. Zeke had even taken over being leader in the cleaning and salvage crew so that Johanna could go back to work in the office. He had asked me back when they first started if I wanted to help, but the idea of returning to that section of the city was not something I could bring myself to do, so I stayed away and buried myself in my work. Long ago I had donated Marcus' house to some of those that lost theirs, so I didn't feel too bad for being selfish. Evelyn didn't want it either, so she had been fine with giving it away, too. Curiosity eventually got the better of me though, and about a month into the cleanup, I pulled Zeke aside to ask him a favor to be kept between us. Let me know when they reach Tris's old house. And now it seems that time has come.

"Did anyone," I stammer. "I mean . . . has anyone—"

"Relax." Zeke says, cutting me off. He runs his fingers through his dark hair. "I blocked it off. I went inside just to get an idea of how bad the damage was, but I let everyone know that no one else is to go in there for any reason. But . . ." I can see that he's nervous now. He doesn't look away from me. "Four, listen . . . it's in pretty bad shape. From the looks of it, there is a lot of fire damage upstairs and one of the walls has completely crumbled." He takes a breath. "Most of the damage came from bullets, though."

His news does not surprise me, though, knowing that Tris's parents had already run by that time, I can't help wonder who might have tried hiding in there only to be found. I shake my head. Probably better to not think about it, actually.

"Also, going upstairs is probably out." Zeke continues. The fire destroyed most of them. What it didn't destroy created a jagged pit of death between the highest remaining step and the top landing."

"Since when do Dauntless fear a jagged pit of death?" I tease with a smirk.

But Zeke did not smile back. "Since it was decided that there were no Dauntless anymore, that's when." He answers, and I run my hand through my hair.

"You don't believe that, do you?" I ask.

"Well," he says slowly, rubbing at the stubble on his face. "That's what we're supposed to believe isn't it? I mean . . . it was the Factions that separated us in the first place, putting us at odds with each other."

I say nothing at first. Getting to my feet, I stretch. "I'm going to jump in the shower real quick." Zeke merely nods, and launches himself onto the couch. I stop in the hallway. "Hey, Zeke?" I hear him grunt in response and I continue. "Being proud of having been a part of Dauntless is not a bad thing. It's our past after all. If you want to believe that even a small part of you is still Dauntless, then that is your choice. No one can take that away from you." I don't wait for him to respond because I know he won't. Instead I turn and head into my bathroom, closing the door behind me.

Standing in front of the mirror, I wince as I look at my face. There is still dry blood on my brow, but it looks like the cut itself has closed up. It was the bruise that made it look worse than it actually was. Dark purplish-black, it runs from the middle of my eyebrow down to the outside corner of my eye. I sigh and turn the shower on, hitting the wall that houses the pipes twice in order to cut off the familiar high pitch squeal emanating from behind it. Pulling off my shirt, I check my chest in the mirror for any other bruises or cuts, finding only a couple light ones. My body is lean but muscular, as I have made sure to keep myself in shape despite no longer having the Dauntless routine. I have also gotten more tattoos in the last four years as well. On my left shoulder blade, sits the Roman number for four (IV), and on the other side of the Dauntless emblem, sitting on my right shoulder blade is the Roman number for six (VI). When I saw them in the history book, and saw how they were the same but inverted, I knew I had to get them. Bud, the tattoo artist, had also been nice enough to touch up the top of the Dauntless emblem for no extra charge, as it had apparently dulled a little.

My left arm has what Bud refers to as a half-sleeve because it goes from my shoulder to my elbow. It's a tattoo of the very top half of the Hancock building with six black birds circling around it. I remember being blown away by the amount of color and detail Bud had put into it, making it almost looks real. Also, if you look close enough you can just see the zip-line disappearing beneath the clouds. The six birds were both a representation of the three birds Tris had gotten, as well as a representation of those I had lost: Tris, Uriah, Tori, Lynn, Will, and Marlene.

Stepping into the shower, I let the heat of the water wash over me, unknotting my muscles. It's then that I remember the dream I was having right before Zeke woke me up by hammering on my door. That was the first time that I have ever known I was dreaming while in the dream. It is also the first time we both acknowledged the fact that she is dead without her actively dying in the dream at the time. _Think,_ she had said. But what the hell does that mean? All too soon the shower water turns cold and I push my thoughts aside in order to quickly grab the soap and scrub myself clean. I jump out of the icy water shivering and wrap a towel around my waist. _Think. _Looking into my dark blue eyes that gaze back at me from my reflection in the mirror, I think about what I am about to do and about what Tris would want to do if she were here with me. I sigh. I know exactly what she would want to do.

Dressed in a pair of black boots, blue jeans, and a black short sleeve t-shirt, I pull a jacket on and attach my knife to my belt as I explain to Zeke my plans. He thinks I'm nuts. I can see it in his eyes. All the same, he agrees to meet me in the Abnegation sector near Tris's old house.

"You're a better man than I," Zeke says as we leave my house together. I say nothing. At the corner he waves and turns right while I turn left. I can feel the apprehension building now as I head out to do what it is I think Tris would want. I focus on my breathing, listening as each breath enters my lungs. I listen to the early morning birds, and to the sound of my boots hitting the broken pavement with each step I take. How long has it been? Two and a half years? I grimace at the realization of it. I had tried in the beginning. I really had. But in the end, it was just too fucking hard. I couldn't do it. Some things were just too unforgivable. Even now, the closer I get the more I can feel my anger begin to set in. My heart is beginning to beat faster, and I wipe my hands on my jeans. I can do this. I reach my destination within a few minutes. Stopping in front of a door, I take a deep breath and knock.

It is only seconds before the door is pulled open and I'm looking at what is left of her.

"Hello, Caleb."

It is obvious that he has only just recently woken up. He wears gray flannel pajama bottoms and a blue t-shirt that was inside out as if he had hastily thrown it on. I don't know what I was expecting to see when he opened the door—whether I thought he would look more like Tris now, but he didn't. But then, I had never thought that Tris and Caleb looked alike. Where Tris had blonde hair and blue eyes, Caleb has brown hair and green eyes. Between those two different contrasts and their different personalities, it was enough to make anyone stop comparing them to each other almost instantly. In fact, it wasn't until after her death that I had started noticing the few traits they did share. They have the same hooked nose, and their mannerisms are at times the same, like when nervous they both tended to fidget. They have the same smile too, though Caleb has dimples where Tris did not. Regardless of their similarities—though they didn't help—the thing that had really kept me away from him for so long was the fact that I wasn't sure if I would ever be able to forgive him for being such a coward. For letting his sister go to her death while he sat back and watched.

Caleb's eyes narrow when he sees me, and he runs his fingers through his Abnegation short hair. It would seem that old habits die hard for him, too. "Tobias," he says in way of greeting. I'm not surprised by his guarded expression. The last time we actually _spoke_ to each other was just after Tris's death when he told me her last words to me. I had wanted so much to make peace with this coward of a man that I had even lied to myself in order to believe it. The last time I saw him though, was after I had zip-lined at the Hancock building. He had been waiting at the bottom and had given me a cautious smile that reminded me so much of Tris when she chose to smile through her frustration, that I had to look away. It wasn't until I got home that day, that I became angry with him for having her smile.

Now I meet his eyes evenly and shove my hands in my pockets. There has been enough time between us that my once instant desire to bash in his face—to make sure he never smiles like her again—is not nearly as strong as it once was, but I take no chances. "Hey," I say, testing the tone of my voice and pleased to hear that it is level. Caleb leans against the door jam, making it clear that he does not intend to invite me in. I can't say that I would have accepted anyway. I launch quickly into why I'm here. "So I'm sure you're aware of the clean up and salvage crew that's been working in the Abnegation sector for the past six months?" I say. Caleb nods, and I continue. "A few months ago, I asked Zeke to let me know when they reach your parents house. Well, they've reached it. I intend to go over there today and see what's there—"

"You made plans to go ransack my house?" Caleb frowns, crossing his arms.

I brittle at his words and my hands ball into fists in my pockets. "No," I say tersely. "I just want to make sure there is nothing there that I think Tris would want to—"

But Caleb is cutting me off again, his eyes flashing as he points angrily at me. "You have no right to barge into my old home just because you dated my sister for a couple months! She was _my_ sister! And if there is anything there that is worth keeping, it will be me that keeps it! That is my house! My birth—"

I move swiftly, the years of being Dauntless engrained in my muscles even now. Grabbing Caleb by the shirt, I shove him back into his apartment and kick the door shut behind us. Spinning around, I shove him hard against the wall and watch with savage pleasure as his eyes widen with fright and his head cracks against the plaster with the force of my movement. "Do not act as if you ever gave a flying fuck about your sister." I spit into his face, finally saying the words that have been burning within me since her death. "Don't think I have forgotten how you delivered her to Jeanine to be played with like a lab rat and then killed, or how you all too willingly allowed her to sacrifice herself so that you could live."

"I already told you I didn't—" Caleb's protest is cut off with a yelp as my hand snaps forward, sinking my knife deep into the wall just next to his cheek. I am only vaguely aware of having released it from my belt in the first place.

"I don't want to hear it," I growl. "You are a selfish coward. Even your parents would have been ashamed of you, so do not speak to me about that place being your home." I can feel him shaking under my hands. I'm shaking too. "And if you _ever_ speak of Tris as if she was your property again, I will kill you." Reaching up, I jerk my knife from the wall and take a step back. "You're lucky I even invited you along." I say, glaring at him. "And I only did so because I think it's what Tris would want me to do, not because I think you deserve a damn thing that might be hidden in that house."

Even though I have released him, Caleb doesn't move. Crossing his arms, he looks at his feet. "I can sit here and try to make you believe that I didn't want her to sacrifice herself for me till I'm blue in the face," he says to the floor. "But it's been four years. So if after all this time, you still don't believe me then there is no reason to try anymore. You've made up your mind, so I won't bother to try and change it." When I say nothing, he looks up at me. "I'll go get dressed."


	3. Chapter 3

**~Chapter Three~**

The early morning air is chilly as we walk in silence, and I cast a sideways glance at Caleb. He hasn't talked to me since we left. He had changed into a pair of blue jeans and a blue long sleeve button up. I have to bite my tongue to keep from commenting on his Erudite wardrobe. That was one faction I was happy to see come to an end. Caleb was nearly as tall as I was, so it was easy for us to keep pace with each other. We reach the Abnegation sector in no time, and I feel my body stiffen as I keep my eyes straight ahead. I don't want to look around. I hear a sharp intake of breath from Caleb as we round the corner and are faced with the destruction that was left behind. I'm surprised by how much they have actually gotten cleaned up. They have made a larger dent than I first thought. I take a steadying breath as I see Zeke up ahead sitting on a downed traffic light. He raises his hand and waves when he sees us. From my peripheral, I see Caleb wave back.

"What's up, Nose?" Zeke says, standing up and slapping Caleb on the back once we reach him. "Long time no see." Confused, Caleb reaches up and touches his nose and I laugh. "Nose" or "Noses" was a Dauntless insult for the Erudite faction. And if I remember correctly, it was Uriah that started that trend. I guess Caleb never got that memo. Zeke scratches the back of his head when Caleb doesn't reply. "Alright. . ." Zeke says. "Just up ahead, then."

I look up the road and see that amongst the rubble and destruction; one house stands out. By all accounts, it shouldn't stand out. The Abnegation houses are all a uniform grey, and are meant to blend into one another. This one stands out because it has been cleaned up as much as it could, whereas the other houses have not been touched yet. Next to me, Caleb is stiff. He is looking straight at the house too, a strange expression on his face. He almost looks pained. This annoys me, but I say nothing. The three of us walk up the road in a mutual silence.

"Well," Zeke begins, looking up at the house. "I'll wait out here. I think this is something you two should do together. Take your time—today is everyone's off day, so there won't be anyone here to stop you." I throw a look at Zeke, who responds only with a smile. Yeah, thanks, I want to say, but I bite back on the retort. I know that he's trying to be polite by giving me and Caleb alone time, but if he thinks that we're going to have a cry fest and a pow-wow, he's in for some serious disappointment. With a shrug, Caleb moves forward toward the house without a word.

"Thanks," I say to Zeke, who claps me on the shoulder.

"Hope you find what you're looking for, man." He says.

I wish I knew what I was looking for, so that I _could_ find it. But I don't bother saying that. Instead, I nod and watch as Zeke picks his way across the street. When I look back, I see Caleb disappear inside. The house is probably the best looking one on the block, given the circumstances—and that's saying a lot about the state of the other houses, seeing as how this house isn't in good shape at all. A part of the upstairs wall has since crumbled and I could just make out the inside of a dark bedroom from where I stand. The front of the house is riddled with bullet holes and broken windows. Zeke was right, it is pretty bad. I take a deep breath and follow Caleb inside.

I don't have to orient myself with the layout, because I know it all too well. All the houses in Abnegation are the same. Caleb is standing just inside the door, his hands balled into tight fists at his side as he looks into the living room. I can't gauge his expression, and I decide I don't want to. He's not allowed to be upset, though. This happened because of his faction. Because of what they did, and what they forced the Dauntless to do. I push past him, and make my way into the kitchen. The cupboards are riddled with bullet holes and the floor is thick with chips of wood, counter pieces, and dust. I frown. It almost seems like whoever did this all those years ago, did it in a senseless manner. I understand that they were under a mind control serum, but from what I remember of it, they had still been disciplined about how they went about killing. This here just seemed like wasted bullets. I look at the blackened stove, and the dust covered table. Tris used to make dinner here for her family here. I know this because it was an Abnegation rule that each family member took turns cooking. I move slowly around the small kitchen, opening drawers at random and then closing them. There is nothing in here that I want, though much of it can be salvaged and given to those who need it. I look out the broken window over the sink and see Zeke standing in the yard across the street. He's staring at something up the road, but I can't tell what it is.

A large crash behind me makes me jump.

Pulling my knife from my belt, I turn and dart back toward the living room. Caleb is on the ground, his eyes wide as he stares at the broken dresser that takes up the middle of the room now. He meets my eyes and then looks up at the ceiling. I do too. Above us is a large hole that answers the question of where the dresser came from. Putting my knife away, I wonder how close Caleb came to getting hit by it and bite back a smile. Death by falling dresser and folded clothes—oh the irony. I hold my hand out to him, but he doesn't take it; choosing instead to get up without my help. His face is white and he is breathing hard.

"Are you okay?" I ask, looking up at the gaping hole in the ceiling.

"What do you care?"

I shrug. "I don't."

I move to the stairs and see what Zeke meant by the death pit. The bottom of the stairs only goes three steps high. In between them and the top landing is twisted metal and splintered wood. Each piece that sticks up is sharp and jagged. I walk to the steps and test the first one with my foot. It feels sturdy so I step up on it. It creaks but holds my weight. I do this with the second and third step as well, and then look up at the top floor landing, gauging the distance. I hate to admit it, but Zeke is right; it would be too dangerous to try and cross this. I back away from the steps and stare up at the hole in the ceiling again. Caleb stalks past me and heads to the stairs now. I turn to watch him. What the hell is he doing? I take a calming breath as Caleb stands on the third step now. Hadn't he just seen me do this? Reaching forward, he grabs one of the twisted pieces of metal and sticks his foot out carefully—I can only assume it's to check for a sturdy spot in the wreckage. What he's not prepared for, is his foot to slip below the debris, and he hisses as he overcorrects himself to keep from falling forward, and cries out in alarm as he instead falls backwards on his ass. I raise my brow, a hint of a smile forming on my lips as he looks at me with his face burning crimson.

"Shut up," he says, though I haven't said anything.

I shake my head, laughing. "You're ridiculous. You didn't actually think that would work, did you?"

Caleb glares at me, and then looks down at his hand. There is a cut across his palm. I cross over to him.

"Get away from me." He spits angrily, leaning away.

"Don't be stupid," I say, kneeling in front of him and taking his hand to examine it. I can feel him trying to pull it away, and I tighten my grip on his wrist.

"I don't need your help," Caleb grumbles.

"It's apparent that you do." I roll my eyes. The cut is long across his palm, and surprisingly deep. The blood has already coated his whole hand. I look back at the sharp piece of metal that he had grabbed a hold of before and say, "A good rule of thumb when you're with me is: if I don't try doing it, you sure the fuck shouldn't." I grin as his cheeks turn a darker shade of crimson.

"Yes, because you're so incredibly amazing," he says angrily.

"Why thank you," I smile as if his compliment was not meant as a sarcastic retort. "But that's not why. The reason is because I'm smarter than you when it comes to this stuff. And chances are, if I don't do something, there's a reason. Now wait here."

Jumping to my feet, I move back into the kitchen and pull open one of the drawers I had looked in earlier. I pull out a kitchen towel and using my knife, I turn it into strips. Walking back into the front room, I find Caleb standing up with his bloodied hand cradled against his chest. I say nothing as I approach him and hold out my hand expectantly. He grudgingly gives me his hand, and I use the towel strips to tie a bandage around the cut. I'm not gentle about it. When I finish, he looks at his palm curiously. He doesn't say thank you, and I don't expect him to. Moving back to the dresser, I begin moving the broken pieces and the still folded clothes away and out from under it until it sits sturdy. Going back into the kitchen, I grab one of the chairs from the table and take it back to the living room, sitting it on top of the dresser. Let's hope this works.

I pull myself up carefully on the dresser and then wait a moment, testing its strength. When I'm sure it won't buckle, I step up onto the chair. I feel it wobble only slightly, but it's otherwise secure. Reaching up, I grab the edge of the broken ceiling and pull myself up with only slight difficulty. I quickly move away from the edge, unsure of how weak the surrounding floor is. It was strong enough to hold my weight, but I don't want to push my luck. Down below, I see Caleb looking up at me. I cock a brow at him and he immediately climbs up onto the dresser, and then the chair. It's when he goes to pull himself up, that he has trouble. He can't do it. Whether it's because of his injured hand or because he has no upper body strength, I'm not sure—though I suspect it's a mixture of both. I sigh overly loud, rolling my eyes in order to show my impatience with him. He only glares at me in response. Edging myself carefully toward him, I take hold of his arms and help pull him up. Once he's away from the hole in the floor, I let go and step away from him.

"That's the second time you _haven't_ needed my help," The sarcasm is evident in my voice as I smirk at him. I don't give him time to respond. Looking at my surroundings for the first time, I see that one of the walls is charred black from the long ago fire, and it trails across the floor where the hole is. What was once a bed sits in the corner, burnt, and in another corner sits a desk with books on top of it, surprisingly untouched.

"This was my room." Caleb says, getting to his feet and carefully crossing to the desk and picking up the top book.

"Your parents let you have books?" I ask, but I already know the answer. Just like my trunk full of treasures, these books were probably hidden at one point.

Caleb answers anyway. "Of course not. They didn't know I had them."

I had learned long ago after listening to Dauntless transfers, that a good sign that a child was going to transfer from their own faction was to see what they kept hidden in their room. This had been true for me, and now watching Caleb, I see that it was true for him as well. I turn toward where the door would be if there was a door, and I cautiously move out into the hall. I start coughing from the blackened soot that engulfs my lungs, and I pull my jacket up around my mouth. Each step is taken carefully as I cross the hall to the burnt door across from me. I use my boot to kick it open, and it nearly disintegrates under the force of my foot as it swings forward. I squint in the sudden sunlight. This was the room that had the collapsed wall. Moss, mold, and water damage is apparent near the crumbled area, and I make a point to avoid it. To my surprise, the rest of the room is untouched. I feel a hitch in my chest as I look around, my heart beating hard. I move to a dresser and run a finger along the dark wood.

"This was Tris' room."

I turn with a start and see Caleb standing in the doorway. His face is smudged with soot, and his clothes are covered with both ash and the blood from his hand. I say nothing. Somehow, I knew this was her room. Pulling open a drawer, I peer inside at the mess of gray clothes. They're not folded, but rather thrown in there. I move on to the next drawer and then to the next. I'm not sure what I'm hoping to find—a hidden treasure that showed she was destined to transfer maybe, but nothing is there. I cross carefully to the desk determined to find something—_anything—_that shows what she may have been thinking the night before Choosing Day all those years ago. I only find pencils and paper thrown in it. Some of it balled up, and others wedged so tightly that it was hard to open one of the drawers. I pull out a pencil and see teeth marks in the soft wood. I find this interesting. Other than that, there is nothing that's really out of the ordinary for an Abnegation child. I sigh, moving to her bed and sitting on it. The wood groans and cracks but otherwise supports my weight. I lean forward, checking under the bed, just to make sure. Nothing. I drop my head in my hands.

"I take it you didn't find what you were looking for?" Caleb says, though not unkindly. I look up at him, unable to put into words the feelings I am having. Disappointment, maybe? Shaking my head, I look down at her pillowcase. From far away, it looked grey, but now up close and in the sunlight, I can see that that the grey pillowcase is actually grey and white striped, with very tiny black and yellow birds placed sporadically around it. It seems almost as if they were not placed next to each other on purpose so as to avoid being noticeable. I run a finger along the pillowcase, and then look back at her dresser, a smile playing across my lips.

"What is it?" Caleb asks. "What's with the grin?"

I bite down on my lip, contemplating answering him. On the one hand, he's a pathetic coward whose face I'd love to pummel, and on the other hand he's Tris' brother. She had loved him even if he didn't deserve it. "If anyone had found your books, they'd have known you were probably going to transfer to Erudite." I say, choosing to answer.

"Yeah, probably." Caleb shrugs. "What does that have to do with Tris?"

"I also had stuff hidden in my room," I say. "Most outside transfers do. But Tris . . . Tris doesn't have anything hidden. Or so I thought." Caleb only looks at me with confusion, and I continue. "None of the clothes in her dresser are folded, her desk is a mess of paper and pencils, and look—" I toss the pillow at him. "There are black and yellow birds carefully hidden in that pillowcase."

Caleb is looking at me like I'm crazy now, and I sigh with exasperation. For someone who is supposed to be so smart, he sure was taking his time to connect the dots. And then it dawns on me. He hasn't put two and two together because he didn't know his sister that well. Maybe he didn't know her at all. I feel pity for him suddenly, and I explain what I'm trying to say. "Tris never had to hide anything, because everything about the real her was hidden in the way she lived every day before Choosing Day. The Abnegation used to be strict about tidiness. I would bet everything I own that every other dresser in this house has tightly folded clothes in them, and I bet that even your desk is neat and orderly."

Comprehension finally hit Caleb, and his mouth popped open as his eyes became glassy. He looked down at the pillow in his hands with a frown. I could only smile though. This room was undeniable proof that Tris was once alive. And that she was destined to transfer out of Abnegation and into the faction that would bring her to me.

"You knew her." Caleb says, looking at me. "I mean, _really knew her_."

"So did you," I say, knowing it's a lie as soon as it leaves my mouth.

Caleb knows too. "No. I lived with her, grew up with her, but . . . but I never knew her. I would never have been able to figure out what you did just by looking at her room."

I don't know what to say to this. Part of me feels bad for him, and the other part of me feels angry at him for making me feel bad for him. I want to scream at him that maybe had he allowed himself to really see her, he would have known her—that because he cared more about his faction than his sister, he missed out on knowing the most amazing woman I had ever had the honor of meeting and falling in love with. That he has no one but himself to blame for that. I say none of this. Getting to my feet, I wipe my hands off on my pants.

"Is there anything else you want to look at?" I ask. I suddenly don't want to be here anymore. In a roundabout way, I have found what I wanted, and I am content with it.

"I'd like to search my parent's room," Caleb answers, hugging the pillow to him. "But you don't have to come with me."

I nod. Leaving the room, I cross quickly back into Caleb's room and lower myself through the hole in the floor. I'm all too eager to get out of the house now. Part of me knows I should wait for Caleb here; if he needed help getting up, I was sure he would need it getting down, but I can't bring myself to care. I exit the front door quickly and then stop. Zeke is standing across the street, but he is no longer alone. He is surrounded by a crowd of people, all clothed in grey. From where I stand, I can't hear what it is they are saying to him, but they are pointing at him and then back at Tris' house. If it weren't for Zeke's body language, I wouldn't really have thought much about some former Abnegation being here. But he was tense, as if he might have to strike out or protect himself at any moment. I push my way through the throng of people and stand next to Zeke.

"What's going on?" I ask. Zeke says nothing, nor does he relax his stance now that I'm here.

"Where's the traitor?" One of the Abnegation shouts.

"How dare you come to pilfer from a Holy house!" Another shouts.

And then they all start talking and yelling at once. Never before have I ever seen the Abnegation come together in anger like this. I look at Zeke, who still hasn't said anything. I can't understand their anger, or what we could have done to cause it. And then as shouts of "there he is" fill the air, and I see Caleb standing hesitantly across the street, the realization of what they're talking about hits me like a train. I don't stop to think about what I am doing as I push myself ahead of the mob, and place myself between them and Caleb.

"You would dare shield him?" An older woman asks, staring past me at Caleb. Her brown hair is pinned back in a bun, and the lines on her face and the drab grey dress she wears makes her look older than she probably is. She looks familiar. Once upon a time I may have even known her name. "He is a traitor to the Abnegation!"

"There is no Abnegation," I remind her. "There are no longer any factions."

"Your faction may be gone, but the Abnegation will not be so easily forgotten. Nor will we forget so easily." She says pointing a finger at me. "The Dauntless may not have been able to control their actions all those years ago, but the Erudite could!"

I could hear Caleb gasp behind me, but he says nothing as agreement choruses through the mob of Abnegation. I'm not sure when Zeke joined me, but he is next to me now, his arms crossed and a hard look on his face.

"I told you already," Zeke says to the woman. "He is with me, and this was his house. He has every right to go through it."

"If he is with you, then you are traitors too. Both of you." I look at the young man talking now, and he is staring straight at me. Him, I do know. His name is Michael, and he is my age. On Choosing Day, he had chosen to stay in Abnegation. "Unless you want to hand over the traitor and walk away, that is." He adds.

My brows shoot up in surprise at what he is suggesting, and the drab grey woman laughs. "You will find that we are not so self-sacrificing anymore."

As much as I dislike Caleb, I know that Tris would not hand her brother over to these people. And neither will I. I frown, rubbing the back of my neck. They had called this house Holy. I can't help but wonder. "Why would you be concerned about this house in particular?" I ask.

Many of the Abnegation looked at me like I'm crazy; and others as if I'm stupid. It was a young girl with blonde hair (I cringe inwardly) that answers. "This is the home of Beatrice Prior." She says. "Surely you know who that is?" Is she joking? I don't know whether to laugh or not. When I say nothing, she goes on. "She is the reason we weren't all slaughtered that night. And she didn't stop there. Her and her boyfriend—" I close my eyes and breathe deeply as my heart drops heavily into my stomach. "—saved many of us. And then in the truest form of selflessness, she sacrificed herself for us in the end. A true child of the Abnegation. This house," she waves at the building behind me. "This is our reminder of her. The last thing we want is Erudite filth ruining it!"

"You realize that this is her brother, right?" I ask, and then immediately realize that that was the wrong thing to say.

"Of course!" Michael spits. "Which makes his treachery that much worse! He should pay for the crimes committed against us, and the betrayal he committed against his sister! And we are prepared to take him by force if you don't move aside."

I look at Zeke, who has his eyes closed, and then back at Caleb. His eyes are wide with fear, but his jaw is set in the same stubborn manner that Tris used to get when she didn't agree with something. He is quickly becoming more trouble than he's worth. I look back at the crowd of people and widen my stance for balance, my hand resting on the handle of my knife. "I guess you're going to have to try to take him by force."

"With pleasure," Michael smiles, moving forward. "You'll not find us so weak anymore."

"Stop!"

I look up, my mouth falling open in shock as Tris glides slowly toward the front. Not, not Tris . . . but the similarities are disturbingly uncanny. I can tell by the way that the Abnegation part around her, she is important to them. She is young, Tris's age maybe, and her blonde hair is cropped short like Tris's had been. She wears dark grey pants that are nearly black, and a light grey long sleeve top that fits a little too snuggly by Abnegation standards. In fact, it took everything I had to not call her by Tris's name. Judging by the look of shock on Zeke's face, and then the worried glances he casts at me, he is thinking the same thing.

"Susan?"

Caleb's shocked voice brings me back to my senses just in time to see him moving toward her. I throw my arm out hard across his chest, and shove him back behind me. I can see the sad look in his eyes as he stares at the woman in front of us. There was almost a longing in them. I look back at the girl—Susan—and realize that I know her. She had joined me, Tris, and Caleb at one point. This was back before we knew that Caleb was still working for Jeanine. She had stayed behind in Amity though.

"Michael?" Susan's soft voice caresses his name as she puts a light hand on his shoulder. She completely ignores Caleb. "Do you really intend to fight the man that helped Beatrice save us?" Michael's eyes go wide as he looks at me. At the same time, a hushed murmur runs through the crowd, and I suddenly feel self conscious as many of them stand on their toes to look at me. "Hello, Four." Susan says, meeting my eyes. "It's been a long time."

"Yeah." I wish I had something more, but I can't think of anything else to say. Her use of my Dauntless name surprises me, but then I remember that that is how she would have remembered me. Zeke is looking at me in shock now, and I try to ignore it.

"I am surprised you did not come sooner," Susan smiles.

"Yeah, I um . . ." I rake my fingers through my hair, trying desperately to ignore the stares and whispers.

But Susan saves me from having to respond. "Forgive their hostility, and now their curiosity," she says waving at the crowd behind her. "They are very protective of Beatrice. But they are also protective of you." She smiles up at me, stepping closer. I instinctively step back. "This is just the first time many of them have seen you. And time has made others forget what you look like. My apologies for that."

"No apologies needed," I say awkwardly. I still can't get over how much she looks like Tris. I wonder if she did that on purpose. I force myself to meet her eyes. They are not blue like Tris', and I sigh in relief as I say, "I hope you understand that I cannot let you have Caleb."

"Well, this does present a problem," Susan frowns. "Surely you know what kind of person he is." At this her eyes flash, and she looks at Caleb for the first time. Even I cringe. The term, if looks could kill, comes to mind.

"I think I know better than anyone, the kind of person he is." I say, crossing my arms.

"And yet you protect him?" She asks. "Why?"

I don't answer right away, not because I don't know, but because I'm not sure I want to say it. Not sure I want Caleb to hear it. It's the same reason I haven't killed him myself. "Because I love Tris." I finally say, meeting her eyes. "And because Tris loved him, despite his faults. She sacrificed herself, yes, but it wasn't just so that you all could live unaffected. It was to keep her brother from having to do it. She died to keep him alive. I think letting him die now would be a pretty shitty way to honor that sacrifice—pardon my language."

No one speaks. Susan looks from me, to Zeke, and then to Caleb. I remember her being much weaker than she is now. I also remember her being with Caleb a lot. There was a history there that I'm completely unsure of. Finally, Susan looks back to me, her face a blank mask. "That is well put." She says. "Because it is you, I will allow him to pass from here under your protection. But he is not to come back. If he does . . . I cannot promise his safe return."

I nod. "Understood. Thank you."

"And Four?" Susan says, touching my arm. I look at her, my brow raised, fighting the urge to jerk away from her. "You are welcome back anytime."

I don't respond. Turning, I grab Caleb. "Let's go."

"But—" Caleb begins to protests, but the look on my face cuts him off. I push him forward, Zeke taking up the rear as we quickly get Caleb away from the mob. I don't think they will come after him, but I take no chances as I usher him forward quickly. Once we are out of the Abnegation sector, our pace slows. Zeke continues to look around quickly, as if he believed at any moment someone might jump out at us, but I trust Susan's word. They will not follow us.

I fall back to step in line with Zeke. "When did the Abnegation—if we can even call them Abnegation anymore—get so. . ." I don't know how to finish that sentence.

"Violent?" he offers.

"Yeah, we can go with that." I say.

Zeke shakes his head. "They've been through a lot."

"Yeah, but . . ." I look at Caleb who is walking ahead of us. His shoulders are slumped, and he is looking at the ground as he walks. "Selflessness should be engrained in many of them. This isn't just some small change in behavior."

"I know, man." Zeke sighs. "Trust me, I know." He is also looking at Caleb. "They let us know on the first day we arrived that they only reason we—the Dauntless—were being allowed to join the cleanup effort, was because they believed we were sincere in our regret, and our determination to make it right. They understand that we had no control of our actions. I was also informed that regardless of my status in the city as law enforcement, I had no rule over their behaviors or actions."

"So you knew they were hostile," the word sounds strange on my lips, "and you let us come anyway?"

Zeke stops and glares at me. "I wasn't expecting them to come out in a mob—hell, I wasn't expecting them to show up at all! Usually they let us do what we do, and stick to themselves. Sometimes they help, sometimes they don't. I didn't even think that they would have a problem with Caleb; what with him being Tris' brother and all."

I shake my head, a small laugh escaping my lips. Zeke raises his brow questioningly at me. I shake my head again. "You were born Dauntless, so you have no idea how weird it is to see them like that."

"Yeah," he agrees. "I guess the Stiffs aren't so stiff anymore."

"Guess not," I laugh.

"So all the craziness aside, did you find what you were looking for?" Zeke asks.

"You know? I think I did." I smile.

I look back up at Caleb, and wonder what, if anything, he got out of the trip. As we get closer to Millennium Park, Zeke takes his leave, saying he needed to go speak with George about what happened. Now that he knew their feelings toward Caleb, he wanted to see what George wanted to do about it. Caleb said nothing to Zeke as he left, merely waving goodbye. I walk with Caleb the rest of the way to his apartment, partly out of curiosity, and partly because like Dauntless training to be careful and suspicious hasn't fully died out in me. I want to make sure he is not accosted after I leave. When he unlocks his door, I follow him inside—glancing only briefly at the knife hole in his wall. Even after what happened, I still don't feel guilty about it.

Caleb's apartment is full of books. Book shelves line his walls, but even those can't hold all the books he owns, and many of them are stacked on the floor or on tables. Caleb stands quietly in the center of his living room. He still hasn't spoken since we left, and I was starting to wonder if he would. Leaning against the wall, I pull my knife out and use it to clean under my nails as I watch him curiously.

Finally I say, "That's the third time you didn't need my help."

I don't know why I said it. On some level, I knew that it wasn't going to help the situation but I couldn't stop myself from getting the dig in. Caleb rounds on me, throwing his keys at the wall next to me. Either his aim sucks or he had not been trying to hit me. I merely stare at him, unfazed. His eyes are red, and he is breathing hard. "Why are you still here?" he spits out angrily. "Or better yet, why didn't you just let them have me? I know you wanted to!"

I slowly put my knife away, and stand up straight. "If I had wanted to give you to them, I would have. I meant what I said back there."

"It's been four years, _Four._" Caleb says, spitting out my name as if it's something bitter in his mouth. "You can't still be in love with my sister."

"Why not?" I ask, my voice calmer than the storm that's building inside my chest.

"Because she's dead!" Caleb screams at me.

I imagine what it would be like to sink my fist into his stomach and then bring my knee to his face when he doubles over. I'm well aware of how long she's been gone for and how incredibly insane it is that I still feel about her the way I do. I can't explain it, though. And if I can't explain it to myself, how the fuck was I supposed to explain it to him? I wait until my breathing slows before I answer. "Are you over her death?"

"Of course not, but she was my sister." He retorts.

I ball my fists and cross my arms. "Look, I'm trying _really_ hard to be nice to you after what happened back there." I say slowly, controlling the level of my voice. "Being branded a traitor by your old faction isn't easy. Trust me, I remember."

Caleb looks like he wants to scream at me, but after a second, his shoulders slump—the fight going out of him. "Well, now you're the hero and I'm the traitor." He says, walking to his chair and falling into it.

"Did you expect any different?" I ask surprised, relaxing against the wall again.

"I—" he begins, but stops. "No. I guess that that should have been exactly what I expected. It just . . . It just doesn't make it any less hard." I nod, knowing exactly what he means. He looks at me, his eyes tired. "Did I ever thank you?"

Um. My brows raise, confused. "For what?"

"She loved you. Truly loved you," Caleb stands up, and I tense as he approaches. "And I can tell that you loved—love her. I'm glad she got to experience that before she died. Thank you." His hand reaches for his pocket, which I realize is bulging out awkwardly. My own hand immediately grasps the handle of my knife. "Oh relax, will you?" Caleb says irritably, seeing my guarded posture. I don't. Rolling his eyes, he tugs and pulls on whatever is in his pocket until it comes free and I can see it clearly: the grey and white stripes, the black and yellow birds. It's Tris' pillowcase. I look up at Caleb confused. "You'll want to wash it . . . her pillow had mold growing on it." He says, holding it out for me to take. "But I think you should have it. You were able to tell more about her just by looking at this than I could when she was alive and standing in front of me."

Reaching forward, I take the pillowcase. I'm not sure what I will do with it. I didn't plan on taking anything of hers back with me, so now that I have something, I'm not sure how I should feel about it.

"Thanks," I say. We stand in awkward silence for awhile before I decide it's too much and push myself off the wall. "I should go."

Caleb walks me to the door. "Thank you for . . . you know." He says as I exit.

"Yeah, well, I didn't do it for you." I say, turning to look at him.

"I know," he smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes. "But thank you all the same."

I shake my head, the pillowcase in my hand. "Bye, Caleb."

"Bye, Four."

The sun is bright overhead—warm even, which is rare for this time of year. But as I walk back to my apartment with Tris's pillowcase in my hands, I can't help but feel cold. I decided right then that I would not ever return to the Abnegation sector. I didn't know what they were up to, and for once, I didn't want to know. I have had enough violence in my life, and I didn't need more. It's why I became Johanna's assistant instead of joining the other Dauntless in becoming policemen. Looking into the sky, I watch as the dark shadow of a bird swoops ominously overhead.

* * *

_**A/N:** Just want to say thank you to everyone who is reading! And thank you to those who have responded that I cant reply to. I truly appreciate the encouragement and am having a blast writing this. It's awesome that you are all enjoying it as well! As usual, please let me know what you think! **  
**_


	4. Chapter 4

**~Chapter Four~**

I run. This is the only time I am truly free to _not_ think about Tris. There is only focusing on the sound of my shoes hitting the pavement, and my breath coming in short but controlled puffs. I push myself harder and as I come up on the abandoned building ahead, I tuck my body in and roll forward. I allow myself to get lost in the feel of the broken cement as I push myself from it. I clear the gate. Up ahead, the door is hanging on its hinges as it had been since the first day I came here. I dart through it and begin jumping over boxes and crates that are strewn on the floor. My heart is hammering in my chest as I clear the last one and then jump with my arms out to catch the metal railing above me. I can feel my muscles working as I pull myself up onto the second floor. I run again. Later on in a hidden back room that I set up years ago for training, I will do pull ups, push-ups, spar with the punching bag, practice fighting techniques, and throw some knives. But for now, I just run.

I was hoping that my workout would give me the reprieve from my thoughts that I was looking for—that is usually did—but it hadn't this time. So now, even though I have the day off, I decide to spend the rest of it at work. I just have too much on my mind to stay home alone where I would be forced to think about it. I had stopped at my apartment earlier in order to drop off the pillowcase Caleb had given me, and now I stop there to shower and change into different clothes before heading over to the Hub. When I get there, it is clear by Johanna's expression that she is surprised to see me walk in, but she is immediately grateful for the extra help. She was the one to initially insist that I take these two days off, and has done so every year since Tris's death. I don't bother to go into what happened earlier today in the Abnegation sector; and while I'm sure she was wondering what could have had me coming to work on one of the only two days I ever required off, she didn't ask. Instead, she went to get us some coffee and then filled me in on what I had missed yesterday.

Even after four years, everything wasn't perfect in the New Chicago. There were still those who were resistive to change, and even more who didn't believe that we _could_ change. The majority of those people were from the Fringe—though there were a few who had been Factionless that believed it too. It was because of that reason that my mother decided she would be best suited in helping the once Factionless in transitioning over into a society where everyone was equal. Johanna was leery of this arrangement at first, but my mother proved to be very good at her job. Having been Factionless, and the leader of the Factionless, at one time meant that just about all of them trusted her.

"I just don't know where they're getting it all!" Johanna says suddenly, and I jump slightly at her outburst. I could understand why she was upset, though. The Fringe has been causing more problems for us lately; spreading rumors that those who live here are being fooled into believing they are safe—that the new government uses the idea of unity as a mask to hide their true intentions. What our "true intentions" are, though, we have yet to learn. While this did not bother us two—three years ago; over this past year they have been gaining momentum and followers. Almost as if someone outside the Fringe were helping them; keeping them stocked in the items they need and ideas to move forward with.

"I mean . . . don't get me wrong," Johanna continues. "I'm glad that someone is helping them where it's needed, like with food and clothes . . . but yesterday Amar arrested someone with a gun. A gun! I thought we were past that!"

"We're never past that." I say, taking a sip of my coffee. It's cold now. "And why wasn't I told about this?"

"Oh, because it just happened yesterday and you had the day off." She doesn't say it spitefully by any means, but I can't help but to feel defensive. The look on my face must have told her as much, and she says quickly, "and understandably so. No one here faults you for taking these two days off, Tobias. And you know I encourage it."

I nod, spinning the cup in my hands. "So do we know who the guy with the gun is, or what he wants?" I ask, choosing to focus on that instead of my needed days off.

"Girl," she corrects. "And no, she's not talking." I notice that Johanna is not meeting my eyes now as she shifts uncomfortably in her seat. "Amar picked her up about a mile from the Hancock building, but other than that—and the fact that we're certain she's from the Fringe, we have no leads to go off of."

I watch Johanna for a moment. She is looking down at her coffee with a frown. When she does look up, it's either to the left or right of me. Never directly at me. There's something else, I realize. Something she purposely isn't saying. "What aren't you telling me?" I ask, refusing to beat around the bush about it.

Johanna's eyes go wide as she straightens up; doing her best to look affronted as she finally meets my gaze. "What makes you think—?"

"Save it, Johanna." I say gently, and not without kindness as I lean back in my chair. "I'm Dauntless . . . or at least I was. Remember? We were taught to notice when someone is trying to hide something from us, so just save us both time and tell me. Besides," I add with a smile. "This is why you wanted me to work for you, isn't it? To help with advice when you have to figure out the hard shit?"

Johanna takes a steadying breath. "Not _for_ me, Tobias. _With_ me. I don't ever want you to work _for _me." She shakes her head. "Still, I have to say . . . four years out of Dauntless and you're still sharp as a tack." She smiles now, expelling a breath. "Very well. I was going to tell you anyway, I just wanted to wait until a few days had passed but . . ."

I cock my brow. "Why put off for tomorrow, what you can do today?"

Johanna gives a light laugh, but then sighs. "Alright, point taken." She stares at me now and I can see the anxiety in her eyes and in the grim set of her mouth. It's as if she's worried about how I'm going to handle whatever it is she's going to tell me. Maybe I should worry too. Johanna continues. "The girl—the one with the gun—she said she won't speak to anyone but you."

"Me?" My brows raise in surprise as my heartbeat quickens. Whatever I had expected her to say, it wasn't that. I try to think of something to say to this. Finally I go with, "And this girl . . . she used my name?"

"Not your real name," Johanna says, sitting back in her chair and crossing her arms. She looks at the cup I'm holding and then jumps to her feet. I barely register her pulling the mug from my hands, or her returning it fuller and a lot warmer. So if the girl hadn't used my real name, then she had gone by my Dauntless name. How would anyone from the Fringe know that name though? I had once introduced myself to a group Nita had known by that name, but that was back when everyone was still fixated on genetically pure versus genetically damaged. Since the memory serum was released however, and New Chicago was started, those who I had once stupidly allied myself with had since moved here. In fact, Nita, who was the leader of that little rebel group, actually found that these days she's quite good at teaching young children and has been doing just that for the last three years.

"Tobias?" I look up at Johanna, who is watching me with worried eyes. It dawns on me that I haven't spoken in awhile and that makes her nervous. "Look, I won't ask you to speak with her. This has to be your choice. I know that the reason you took this job was to get away from all that other stuff."

I still don't speak. She's right, of course. And until now, I have gotten my wish of staying away from the violence and the politics of dealing with the Fringe. Maybe it's the timing of all this that's throwing me for a loop. I find it strange that this is all happening now, but maybe on some level I should have been expecting it all along. Violence tends to follow me wherever I go. Maybe the last four years were just a way of lolling me into a sense of false security. But then I think about all of my workouts and my strength training. If I truly want nothing to do with violence, war, and whatever else may come, then why am I making sure I'm prepared for it? I look at Johanna. Her graying brown hair is tied back in a ponytail making the scar along her cheek visible. I have always wondered how she got it, but have never asked. I also remember a time when she used to be self conscious about it, but it seemed that time was no longer. She has been wearing her hair up like that for a little over four years now. It doesn't make her scary looking or less attractive, either. In fact, it did the opposite. She looks prettier when she shows off her scar.

"Where is she being held?" I finally ask.

Johanna doesn't answer at first, but watches me carefully. "Are you sure this is something you want to do?" she asks. "I don't want you to feel like—"

I put a hand up to stop her. "This is my choice." I say. "We won't find out anything if I don't go, and I want to know what the hell's going on just as much as you do."

The look on Johanna's face in that moment confuses me; she looks almost sad or disappointed, but it is gone so quickly I wonder if I saw it correctly. Now she is looking at me as if my willingness to go brings her great relief. She doesn't say anything as she grabs a pen and paper and writes down an address and directions. "Thank you, Tobias." She says with a smile. She gets up and leaves without another word.

Draining my coffee, I follow her out the door.

After looking at the address, I know I don't need the directions. I'm going to the police station. Or—what has been made into a police station, rather. There was once a real station complete with jail cells here, but the building didn't survive the Purity War. Instead, they turned the surviving portion of the Arborn Station into a police station. The part of the building they use was once some sort of hospital, as was evident by the contents found inside, but they had since changed the exam rooms into offices and jail cells. All in all, it ended up working out really well. The walk from the Hub to the Arborn Station is a relatively short one, and it's not long before I come up on the red brick building. Just about the entire right side of the building has collapsed and crumbled, but the left side remained untouched. The Arborn's clock tower had somehow survived as well, though the clock had stopped working long ago.

When I enter, I see Shauna sitting in her wheelchair behind the long desk that had been modified to fit her height, and an older man in front of her waving a piece of paper in the air frantically. A year and a half ago, she had shown me her new prosthetic legs—two things she was very proud of—and her ability to use them. In fact, the only time she didn't use them was at work. She was excited to be able to do a job that wasn't sitting at home, but she admitted early on that the constant standing could get uncomfortable to downright painful. It was Zeke who had suggested using her wheelchair while she was at work. She and Zeke had gotten married a year ago. I wasn't surprised. I could still remember the way he had looked at her during Initiation all those years ago. It was the same way I look at Tris.

My heart drops suddenly, and I wince inward. I can feel the heat rising to my face as I mentally correct myself—the same way I _use_ to look at Tris. Past tense. I can't believe I thought that as if she were still alive. She's not. She's dead and her ashes are scattered. What the hell is wrong with me? Somehow I manage to force a smile on my face just in time as Shauna finally looks away from the man and see's me. At least her smile is genuine when she waves me over. As I approach the desk, Shauna looks back up at the old man standing in front of her, a comical mixture of exasperation, annoyance, and confusion written on her face.

"Listen, Mr. Collins, I already told you . . . I don't know what that is, but I can be sure to ask—"

"You get him out here right now! I'll ask him myself!" The old man barks angrily, pushing his perfectly trimmed graying-brown hair back. My brows rise at the tone of voice he is using toward her—not that he notices. He didn't so much as cast a sideways glance at me when I approached. I hate his type. And even if he wasn't wearing blue, or those ridiculous glasses he probably didn't need, I still would have known he was once Erudite.

"I already told you that, too. He's not here yet. If you would like to leave it with me, I can—"

"Oh no I won't!" the old man—Mr. Collins she had called him—yells. "If he thinks I'm just going to take this . . . this—I mean look at this!" The man peers down at the paper in his hand and I cock my brow questioningly at Shauna. Rolling her eyes, she shakes her head as a response. The old man begins to read out loud. "'In accordance with law _3498462_, your vehicle is parked too far away from the curb. This is unacceptable as it makes it difficult for others to maneuver around you. Plus, it's just plain rude. If this is not corrected, you can expect another ticket.'" Mr. Collins looks down at Shauna, his eyes wide with anger. I, on the other hand, have to choke back on my laughter now. I can picture all too well Zeke leaning against the man's car and writing this while thinking back to our earlier conversation about parking tickets. I hope that my attempt to turn the laugh into a cough is convincing, but it's clear that it was not. Slowly the old man turns to look at me, and then at my clothes, with disdain before turning back to Shauna. He wasn't yelling now, but the anger had not left his tone. "I didn't even know of such a law." He says in a superior tone that makes me want to punch him. "And did we get a sudden surge of drivers that I am unaware of as well? Because last I checked, I was one of the very few people in this city that actually own a car. So who the hell is having trouble driving around me? I demand an answer!"

At this, Shauna's eyes went hard and her shoulders rigid. I have seen this look before. A part of me wants to tell this man to run—to run now before it's too late—but one of the many problems with Erudite's has never just been their habit of speaking down to others, but their habit of actually thinking that they were superior to others. And now, four years after we did away with Factions, they have still somehow managed to keep that air about them. And it bugs the shit out of me. I lean against the desk and don't bother to hide my amusement as I watch.

"You can demand all you want." Shauna's eyes flash, her tone sharp. "It will get you nowhere. Now I suggest that if you don't want me to throw you out of here, you change your attitude and stop being a prick."

The old man eyes her wheelchair, a nasty sneer playing on his lips. "Oh, you're going to throw me out? And just how do you think you'll manage that in a wheelchair?"

My hand snaps forward grabbing his shoulder and spinning him towards me, causing his glasses to fall lopsided on his face. "Just think of me as her legs." I smile calmly into his wide startled eyes. "Now I think you owe the lady an apology."

The man sputters before finding his voice. "I most certainly don't! This—this _'ticket' _is an outrage! You police officers are here to keep us safe, not to harass us!"

"Well, as I'm not an officer, I guess I don't have to abide by that." I say. "Now apologize, or not only will I throw you out, but I will make sure to slap you with a fine for harassing our law enforcement."

At this, the man regains what's left of his composure and pulls out of my grip. "Not police, huh?" He says, eying me suspiciously. "Then just who are you that makes you think you can do that?"

"Tobias Eaton." Because I choose not be in the lime light, my face is not nearly as well known as my name is. And my name has, to my chagrin, become incredibly well known. Now the old man stares at me; disbelieving at first and then nervously. I continue, "And if you want to be able to leave here with your dignity instead of wearing your ass for a hat, then I suggest you apologize."

The old man looks at Shauna, who is smiling wide now, and then back at me, several times before he finally straightens his glasses. "Yes, well . . ." he takes a breath, looking again at Shauna. "I apologize—though I hope you understand my frustration with the matter. I trust you will look into this?" He sets the hand written ticket on the desk in front of her, gives me one last unsure glance, and then scurries quickly out the door. As soon as it closes behind him, I let out a burst of laughter. It doesn't take long for Shauna to join me. Once our outburst dies down, Shauna shakes her head.

"Thanks," she says. "I could have handled that though."

"Oh, believe me, I know." The corner of my lips pull up into a half grin. "But I wasn't doing that for you—I was doing it for me." When she raises her brow in confusion, I laugh and continue in an overly exasperated tone. "The last thing I need is a report landing on my desk about law enforcement running over citizen toes in anger! Besides, having had my toes ran over by you before, I know how much that shit hurts. So while I really, _really_ wouldn't want to have to take his side, I would have no choice."

"You're such an ass, Four." Shauna laughs as she picks up the ticket and stares at it. "And so is Zeke apparently." She shakes her head, and then holds out the paper for me to see. "You wouldn't have any clue what this is about, or what the hell the purpose of this thing is, would you?"

I could be honest. I really could be. But she really has run over my toes before, and I don't think they will be safe if I tell her that the cause of her headache is because of something I taught Zeke about earlier. Yeah . . . nope. I shrug in a noncommittal fashion. "Nope, couldn't tell you."

Shauna stares at the paper again. "I swear I don't know where he comes up with some of this crap sometimes."

"Hey, you're the one who married him." I laugh.

"And I'd marry him again," she says without missing a beat. "Over and over and over again." Setting the ticket down, she looks up at me. "I suppose you're here to see the girl?"

I don't hide my surprise. "Were you expecting me?"

"Of course I was," she says as if this should be obvious. "You can fool everyone else into thinking that you're all government and politics, but you can't fool me. You're Dauntless, through and through. So when a girl with a gun that no one knows asks for you by name, you can bet your ass I'll be expecting you to show up."

I keep the smile on my face, but say nothing. I'm not even sure what I _should_ say to that. It's apparent she meant it as a compliment, but I'm not sure I take it that way. For the last four years, it wasn't everyone else I was trying to fool. And knowing that I was apparently so incredibly readable made me uneasy. What else about me was easy to see?

I chew on the inside of my cheek before I finally say, "Well then . . . lead the way."

* * *

_**A/N: **As always, I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Though it's short, this one took me a few days to do cause I kept rewriting it and changing tidbits here and there. Not to mention the research I found myself doing on Chicago, locations, and proximity's. I knew I wanted to use a real building for the police station, but I also wanted it to be just right. It took me a day and a half to finally find the one I wanted! And then I had to map quest it to get the location and how close it was to where he was and . . . yeah. See what I get for not being at all familiar with Chicago? I guess I'm nothing if not thorough, though. Anyhoo, I'll stop rambling. Please let me know what you think! _


	5. Chapter 5

**~Chapter Five~**

I follow Shauna through the station nodding as I go at those I know, and smiling politely at those who know me. There are also some that stare openly at me. I stare back until they look away. A few times someone would see me, and then bend to whisper something to the person they are with as I pass. I try to ignore it. It is no surprise that the majority of those who have joined the police force were once Dauntless. It made sense, really. We already had the kind of training needed for it. There are a few here who had been Factionless before the new government took over, but even those few had been either failed Dauntless initiates, or had been asked to leave Dauntless do to age or physical limitations. In this new society, they got a second chance to prove themselves. I hear my name as I pass by an office, and I stop as Amar appears at the doorway, smiling.

"I can take him the rest of the way, Shauna." He says.

"Oh, okay." She nods, and I move aside so that she can turn herself around. She looks at me. "Make sure you say goodbye to me before you go."

"Of course," I smile, but she's no longer looking at me. Turning, I follow her gaze and see Zeke walking toward us with a grin on his face.

_"You!"_ she yells, her brows furrowing in anger. Zeke's smile disappears as he stalls.

"What did I—" he begins nervously.

"What the _fuck _is a parking ticket?" she yells at him, and I have to stifle a laugh as his eyes meet mine. Before he can answer though, she is already rolling past him. "_Come here._"

I can't stop the grin that spreads across my face as Zeke turns and follows his wife back out into the lobby. I see a few others around me snicker as they watch him go as well. When it comes to Shauna, it doesn't matter that Zeke is one of the leaders of the police force. And it seems that everyone else knows this too. Amar is watching them go with a look of confusion on his face. "A parking ticket?"

"Don't ask," I say with a chuckle.

Amar shakes his head. "I don't think I want to." He says. "So how have you been? I rarely see you these days."

"Yeah," I run my hand through my hair. "Been busy at the Hub."

"Four—government official," he grins, looking at me. "So since when did being a government official become so dangerous?"

"What?" I ask confused, and Amar points at my brow. I bring my hand up to it as I realize what he's talking about. It's still tender.

"Gotta watch out for that paperwork," he laughs. "It'll get'cha."

I give him a half-cocked smile and follow him through the halls. "So how are things going here?" I ask, instead of explaining my black eye. "Do you still like it?"

"Oh, I love it!" Amar says enthusiastically. "They recently started having me train the new initiates."

"Initiates?" my brow raises at the word.

"Yeah," he says, stopping at a closed door and fumbling in his pocket for keys. When he finds the one he wants, he unlocks it and allows me through first. He turns to re-lock the door, and then continues. "There was a surge recently in applications, and there are a few who used to either be Factionless or from the Fringe. George wants to make sure that they're capable, ya know? "

I nod. "There are others here that were once Factionless. Were they trained?"

"Yep." He nods. "In fact, we all have to undergo tests and training to join the force—show that we know what we're doing. But the Factionless, Fringe—basically anyone who didn't come straight out of Dauntless, have a more rigorous training schedule." Amar shrugs. "George says this is because they don't have the same skills and discipline that those who were Dauntless do. I had to take the harder training course, too."

"You did?" I ask surprised.

"Yep."

"But you were Dauntless," I say.

Amar shrugs, "Not for a few years."

"How did it go?" I hedge, giving him a side-long glance.

"I did so well that three years later they asked me to take over the training." He jokes. "But in all reality, the new initiates are really good. In fact, we have one guy—Derek—who was once Dauntless, training right now. He was Factionless for six years when all this went down. When he was in Dauntless, he was sent on a recovery mission and ended up losing his eye after a misjudged jump off the train that landed him in the hospital with a shard of metal impaling his face. The Dauntless leaders decided that had he been younger, he would have been able judge the jump better."

I frown, knowing where this is going. "They asked him to leave."

"Yep," Amar nods. "But that was a mistake." He says shaking his head. "You should see this guy. Not having an eye has not slowed him down in the least. He's top of the class in guns, knives, and hand to hand combat."

I think of Edward and the eye patch he wore after Peter had stabbed him in the eye. Having lost his eye resulted in him becoming Factionless, but he was just as capable without it. In fact, he had once been my mother's right hand man. That was before he was killed. "One of the mistakes Dauntless made was underestimating people." I say.

"True." Amar agrees. "That is a mistake we don't make here. Besides, you never know when we might get another Four or Tris."

My stomach lurches at the casual drop of her name and I'm sure that my eyes must have gone wide, but Amar didn't seem to notice. He hadn't really known Tris, but he had heard the stories. He knew that like me, she had come from Abnegation, and though everything was stacked against her, she had made it to the top of the class. But even now, I know that it was what had come after all that that had really sealed her place in our history.

"You never know," I mumble, and Amar stops outside a closed door to look at me. At first, I think it's because he heard the unenthusiastic tone in my voice, and I worry that he's going to try to talk to me about it. He doesn't. Instead, he pulls out another set of keys.

"This is it." He says jerking his head toward the door. "I'm gonna let you in, and then lock the door behind you. When you're done, just knock and I'll let you out. Oh!" he adds, as the key slides into the lock. "She's not locked down to anything, so just know that."

I raise my brow. "Free range of her room and yet no guards out here to make sure she doesn't try to escape?"

Amar's hand hesitates on the door. "That's the weird thing," he says with a frown. "She hasn't tried. Not once. She came willingly, and has only just sat in there asking for. . ." he bites his lip.

"Asking for what?" I have a feeling I know the answer to this, but I ask it anyway. Amar's eyes meet mine, and I can read the apprehension in them. I don't understand it, though. Is it because he's afraid of answering?

Finally, he smiles. But it's a tight lipped smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Asking for you."

I expel a breath I didn't know I was holding in. Yeah, that's what I thought. Nodding, I square my shoulders and watch as he turns away from me to open the door. My heart begins to race as I step inside and the door closes softly behind me.

The room is small and there is still some evidence of it having once been an exam room. A window that had been fitted with bars sits in the wall opposite from me, and under it is a counter with a sink set into it. It looks like the counter once had drawers, but they have since been removed leaving a hollow space underneath it. I notice there are no handles to turn the water on, but on the floor there is what looks like two metal foot petals that connect to the exposed pipes under the sink. There is a small wooden stool tucked into the corner next to the counter and on the other side, tucked against the wall is a small bed. The girl is curled up on it, facing the wall, and her dark ebony hair is spread across her face preventing me from seeing it. She is petite, but I know from experience that that doesn't mean shit. You don't have to be big to be a killer. I move silently and pull out the stool and place it only a couple feet away from her bed. Sitting on it, I watch her. She wears black jeans and a black sweater that are not nearly as dark as her hair, but cause a startling contrast to her cream colored skin.

I cross my arms and kick the bed. "Wake up."

I am not prepared for her reaction. With blinding speed the girl shoots up and lunges at me. I only barely have time to catch her as I fall backwards off the stool, taking her with me. My heart accelerates and time slows down as adrenaline kicks in. I barely notice the pain in my head from it bouncing off the linoleum floor, but I am all too aware of the awkwardness of the fall due to the stool now being wedged under my legs. Her hair is hanging in her face, hiding it, as she rears up and a growl leaves her lips. Her hand snaps back, but I catch it before it can spring forward. Kicking the stool out of the way, I latch one of my legs around hers at the same time that I capture her other wrist. I pull her body against mine and turn over, pressing her into the ground now. I can feel her bucking and writhing under me until she gets a hand free, and I grunt in pain as she connects it with my face. Growling, I recapture her hand and then pin both of them above her head as I distribute my weight evenly so that she doesn't have any range of motion. We stay like this for a few seconds until I feel the fight go out of her. She turns her face away from me, her hair plastered across it with sweat, and though I cant see them, I know she has closed her eyes.

"Are you done?" I ask breathlessly, but firmly as I hear a key in the door. A second later, Amar is standing there looking down at us. I can only imagine what we must look like.

"What the fuck?" is all he says. I shake my head. Without loosening my grip on her wrists or shifting my weight, I look up at him. His eyes are wide with shock, and he looks torn between jumping in and backing away slowly. It would have been funny if I hadn't just been attacked.

"Spitfire here apparently does not like to be woken up." It's a bad joke, but it's all I can think to say in way of explanation. I can feel my heart hammering in my chest, and I wouldn't be surprised if she could feel it too. I look back down at her. She still isn't looking at me. "Are you done?" I ask again, louder. "You asked for me, but I can just as easily leave." After a pause, I see her nod. It's beginning to irritate me that she still won't look at me. I release her wrists and angry red hand prints immediately flare up on them. I don't feel bad. Pushing myself up off of her, I take a step back toward Amar. "I think we're okay now." I say.

"You sure?" He asks looking down at the girl.

"Yeah."

Amar's mouth is working like he wants to say something else, but then he nods. "Let me know when you're done. Or—you know, if you need anything."

"Yep." I watch as he disappears back through the door and closes it. Once the lock slides into place, I turn and see that the girl is sitting up now. She is looking down at her wrists, rubbing at the welts that encircled them. Saying nothing, I walk over to the stool and turn it upright. My already bruised brow is beginning to throb where she hit it, and I can feel a dull ache in the back of my head where I hit the floor. Ignoring both, I sit and watch her. Her black sweater is unbuttoned and hangs open revealing a red tank top underneath it, and I can see a small circular scar just below the hollow of her throat. When she still says nothing, and still doesn't look at me, I cross my arms irritably. "This is fun and all, but I have better—"

I gasp, my heart sinking like a stone, as she looks up at me with piercing blue eyes. I know those I eyes. Jumping to my feet, the stool clattering to the ground behind me, I take a step back shaking my head furiously. This is not possible. This can't be possible. She looks nothing like her! But . . . oh dear God, her eyes. She had always thought them dull and un-unique, but I had known differently. I could see it when she used to look at me. But this woman . . . this girl in front of me . . . I can feel my body struggling to slow my breathing. It can't be! It just can't! _She_ can't be.

"Tris." I finally whisper.

The girl pushes her black hair—_Black, not blonde!—_back away from her face and ties it behind her head, before getting to her feet. I can tell right away that she's the same height as Tris. She says nothing as she takes a seat on her bed and watches me with those blue eyes I know so well. Could she have changed her hair color? I mean, it's possible isn't it? I remember seeing people in Dauntless do it all the time. My eyes travel down to the scar near her throat; perfectly circular, like a bullet wound. My mind is seizing up on me as I push harder against the wall I'm pressed against. Nothing is making sense anymore.

From somewhere far away I hear her say something and my eyes snap back to her face. She is looking at me, but I am looking at her features. Her face is thin with high cheekbones, but her nose doesn't seem quite right. It's long and straight like it's supposed to be, but it seems to be missing something, too. She speaks again. I know this because I see her lips moving, but I don't hear anything except my own shallow breaths and rapid pounding of my heart. Suddenly she is standing and I shake my head in horror as she approaches me, but I am unable to move. I want to flee and cry and fight and . . . and . . . and I can't seem to do anything. She takes my hand in hers, and it feels so right that I nearly cry out. I follow her as I always have, allowing her to lead me to her bed. Turning to face me, she takes me by the shoulders and sits me down. Taking a step back, she picks the stool up off the floor and sits on it.

"Four."

I can hear her now, and I drop my head in my hands unable to look at her anymore. I realize now that I am dreaming. I must be. And this has got to be one of the worst ones I have ever had. Wake up, I tell myself. Wake up, wake up, _wake up!_

"Four, look at me." She commands, and I do. I raise my head, and meet those eyes. Those beautiful blue eyes. A frown tugs on her lips as she watches me. "Jesus Christ, Four. Get your shit together and hear what I am telling you so we can get past this!" My brow furrows as she continues slowly, enunciating each word. "I. Am. Not. Tris. Do you hear me? I'm not her."

The words hit me like a freight train. I hear her loud and clear, but I can hardly bring myself to believe her. Not when she has Tris' eyes. I shake my head, focusing on her features again. Her hair is dark, her nose is the same but at the same time it's not, her lips are the same—maybe a little fuller, but not much. And her eyes . . . they are _exactly_ the same. I bring my eyes down to her neck, the scar on her chest, her slender shoulders that are hunched forward, and then her breast. On any other day, I might have been embarrassed by my abrasive staring, but not today. Not right now. Her breasts are larger than Tris' were. She is the same, but she is not. She's not Tris. The words reverberate through my head, and even though I feel a sense of relief, I also feel the tearing and ripping apart of whatever little hope there had been building inside me. All too soon I am overcome with the grief of losing Tris all over again. I drop my head in my hands, my shoulders slumping. I'm so stupid! How could I have ever thought that she was Tris? That Tris was alive? I can feel the tears burning my eyes, and I shut them tight.

"How?" I demand suddenly. It hurts to look at her, but I force myself to. "How do you know me, and how is it you look so much like . . . like her?" I can hear my voice crack as I say it. I have seen Tris in the faces of those around me before, but now I realize that none of them even came close. Not even Susan, who had probably come the closest, looked this eerily similar. The girl shakes her head and closes her eyes. My heart is pounding out the seconds that she doesn't answer. Finally, she takes a breath. I have to look away when she opens her eyes.

"Those are not easy questions to answer." She says, and now that I'm paying attention I realize that her voice is not the same as Tris's either. Though it is similar in pitch, hers is harder and carries an almost inaudible accent that I can't place. In fact, if I weren't listening so closely, I would have missed it.

I snap at her words, uncalled for rage seeping into my every being. "What do you mean 'not easy questions'?" I ask angrily, jumping to my feet. I'm feeling destructive suddenly and I want to make sure I'm not near anything. Unfortunately, the room is so small it doesn't give me much space. I have only felt this way once before. It was right after Tris' death and I had to spend my first night without her. Most of my possessions didn't survive. I begin to pace, balling my hands into fists and then crossing my arms. Calm down, I tell myself. But I can't. I feel cheated; as if I was offered something beyond my wildest dreams . . . something too good to be true . . . only to have it cruelly snatched away after it was dangled in front of me. "You asked for me—me specifically." I have to control my tone now to keep from yelling it at her. "And you, looking the way you do, didn't think I would ask those questions when I got here?"

"No, I knew you would," she sighs, her damn eyes following me as I pace. "I just thought I would have more time to figure out how to put the answers into words."

I turn and stare expectantly at her. "Well I suggest you figure it the fuck out." I spit.

"It's not that easy!" she fires back irritably. "There is a lot that—"

"I don't care!" I yell at her now, the rage and despair finally breaking free. "I don't give a flying fuck if there's a lot that goes into it, or how hard it might be for you to put into words! What I care about is—"

"I was created!" She screams, standing up. "I was created as a weapon to be used against you!"

The silence is deafening.

We stare at each other as the time ticks away, her words bouncing in my head. A weapon. She's supposed to be a weapon against me. This is too much. I can't . . . I just can't. Turning, I pound on the door.

"Where are you going?" she asks suddenly.

I don't answer.

"Four." She says urgently now. "Please, just listen."

I won't. As soon as I hear the lock slide back, I jerk the door open catching Amar off guard. He just barely keeps his balance, but I say nothing as I stalk past him. It takes everything I have not to run as I hear both him and the girl—the girl that looks like Tris, but isn't Tris—calling my name now. As I reach the end of the hall I am met with the locked door that we had come through earlier and I explode. My fist snaps forward with lightning speed and goes through one of the walls as a strangled cry of frustration escapes my lips. Turning, I lean against it and slump to the floor. I run my hands through my hair as I bring my knees up, unsure of what else to do.

Her words run through my head again. She was created as a weapon. Did she mean she was made to look like Tris? That couldn't be right though, because everyone knew Tris had blonde hair. If someone was going to go through all the trouble of trying to make someone look like her, you would think getting that one major detail right would be on the top of their to-do list. I shake my head. I also can't think of anyone who wants me dead. At least . . . not anymore. It makes no sense! Getting to my feet, I take a deep breath and begin to make my way back up the hall. Up ahead, I see Amar walking toward me, but he stops when he sees me. I realize that he's unsure of how to approach me, so I approach him. Stopping in front of him, I look up the hall to where I know her cell is.

"I knew we should have told you." Amar says quietly and my eyes snap to his face, but he's looking down at my hand. He reaches forward and takes it, examining it. "I tried telling them how uncanny it was, but they kept insisting that it was just in the eyes; and that if we told you, you wouldn't come."

I don't know what to say to this. I look down at my hand in his, only mildly surprised to find my knuckles bloodied and bruised as he turns it over gently in his palms. I didn't even felt my fist break through the wall when I hit it, let alone any kind of accompanying pain. I shrug when Amar looks up at me, and suddenly the earlier look of apprehension on his face when he was getting ready to open her door makes sense to me now. So does the look of worry that Johanna had given me back at the office. They all knew who she looked like, and none of them had warned me. I bite down on my anger, resisting the urge to crack him in the jaw. It's been a long time since I was this angry.

When I'm sure I can control my tone, I say, "I would like to go back in there and talk to her again."

Amar looks at me and nods. "Okay. But let's wrap your hand first." But I have no desire to wrap my hand. I just want to get this over with. I shake my head, and he seems to understand. We walk back to her door in silence, and I wait while he unlocks it. "Let me know if you need anything."

I say nothing as I walk in. The girl, who is sitting on the bed, looks up with relief when I walk in. I have to look away.

"Why is your hair black?" I ask as the door shuts, and before she can say anything.

"What?"

I still don't look at her. "Your hair. You said that you were created as a weapon against me, which I can only assume means you were made to look like Tris." I close my eyes and breathe deeply. It's exhausting trying to keep my tone under control. "Everyone knows Tris's is—was blonde."

"I dyed it." She says immediately.

I shudder at her answer, and try not to think of how much more she would look like Tris if she had left it blonde. "Why?"

"Because . . ." Her voice dies away, and I give her a sidelong glance. She's looking down at her hands. "Because I don't _want_ to look like her." She whispers. "I don't want to be a weapon against you."

I look at her fully now, my arms crossing. "Then why did you come here? Why wave a gun around the Hancock building?" I can feel my temper rising again, and I can't stop it. She's still looking at her hands. Moving forward, I grab her by the shoulders and shove her back against the wall. "And why the fuck did you refuse to talk to anyone but me?" I growl.

Her eyes—those fucking sapphire eyes—are wide, but her body holds no tension. She merely looks at me. Shaking my head, I let go of her and turn away. From behind me, I hear her say, "To warn you, Four."

"Why do you keep calling me Four?"

"Really? That's what you're concerned about?" She says suddenly, and I can hear the anger in her voice. I don't care. "You haven't even asked me the most important question!" When I don't respond, she continues. "Aren't you even a little curious about _who_ did this to me? _Who _it is that wants to get to you?"

Of course I am, but I don't tell her that. I don't even know if she's telling me the truth! Instead I turn toward her, but look up at the ceiling. "Why do you keep calling me Four."

"Because I don't want to call you Tobias." She says with a sigh. "It seems too personal."

So she does know my real name. That's what I was wondering. "Almost as personal as being made to look exactly like my deceased girlfriend," I quip, glaring at her. A hurt look enters her eyes and I have to take a steadying breath and look away. Even now, knowing they aren't Tris' eyes, the resemblance is still just too much. It still pains me to see them upset. "What's your name?" I ask.

Silence. I look at her, wondering why she's not answering. She's been forthcoming so far about everything else, so why not this? I frown when I see her wringing her hands, a look of apprehension on her face. And for once, it's her who's avoiding looking at me. It suddenly dawns on me why, like a slap in the face. My heart begins to hammer erratically as I stare at her in shock.

"You're fucking kidding me." I breathe, shaking my head. She looks at me now, and I can see her eyes shimmering. I feel sick. "FUCK!" I scream out angrily, rubbing hard at my eyes until white spots burst forward. "Okay, so who is it?" I ask instead, deciding I don't want her to answer the other question. "Who wants to get to me so badly, that they would . . ." I wave a hand at her. "Do that."

And now she straightens up, a look of pure hatred on her face. "The Bureau." She spits the word with such unadulterated rage that I can't help but to look at her, my brows furrowing in disbelief. That can't be right. They don't really even remember me, let alone would they want to kill me. But still, she meets my gaze fiercely, her eyes blazing with a blue fire I'm all too familiar with. "The Bureau has their memories back. And now they want to get to you and everyone else here."

* * *

_**A/N: **Okay, so let me just say a quick thank you to those who have favorited and followed this story. Also, a big thank you to the anonymous reviewers, as I cant respond directly to you. I was really worried when I was writing this chapter. I always planned for this to happen, but I still was nervous writing it, because I'm not sure how you, the reader, will react to this turn in the story. I really hope you like it! Please let me know what you think!  
_


	6. Chapter 6

**~Chapter Six~**

I sit with my head in my hands, and the girl—the girl who looks like Tris, but isn't Tris—sits on the stool watching me. I can feel her blue eyes burning a hole into my skin. I try to think, but it's hard with her here. She said that the Bureau has their memories back, but surely we would have heard of this. Matthew is still there. He would have told us if something like that happened, wouldn't he? I'm trying so hard not to just jump up and head over there demanding answers. It's my impulsiveness that has gotten me into trouble in the past, so I try to look at this like Tris would—try to see the cracks in the foundation. If she were here, she would remind me that I don't know this girl. I may know her face and her eyes, but I don't know her. I can't just jump into this with guns blazing. And I can't take her word for it just because she looks like . . . I shake my head, running my fingers brusquely through my hair.

"I'm sorry," she whispers suddenly, and I look up at her. I immediately wish I hadn't. She wears that same expression Tris did when she felt bad about something.

"For?" I ask, my voice as even as I can get it.

"I know this is a lot to take in." She says, and then she casts her blue eyes downward. "And I know how much you loved her—how much you love her still. I'm sorry I can't be her. That this isn't the reunion story that you might have hoped for."

"Yeah, well . . ." My voice dies out as I realize I don't know how to answer that. I choose not to try. "So let's say I believe you—"

"Are you saying you don't?" One of her brows raise.

"I'm saying that there's a girl sitting in front of me that looks nearly exactly like a person I love—loved very much. And that this girl is claiming that the Bureau is back and incredibly pissed off." I have to fight my urge to look away from her. "And that she was created as a part of their war plans."

"I never said war plans," she cuts in quickly. "Just that they want to get to you and everyone else involved in what happened to them. And _this girl _has a name, by the way, whether you want to hear it or not."

"Tris?" I spit out more angrily than I should, but she just looks at me unfazed with those big blue eyes. I jump to my feet and begin pacing, trying to calm myself down. I don't want to think about her name. It's _not_ her name, and I refuse to call her it. Just the fact that she took Tris' name makes me beyond furious! Closing my eyes, I take a breath—focusing on it. "By wanting to get to me and everyone else, it sure sounds like they're trying to plan for some kind of war." I say in an attempt to avoid the subject of her name. When she says nothing to this, I turn and force myself to look at her. She has her arms crossed and that stubborn set in her chin. Glaring at her and noticing how much she really looks like Tris; her movement, her mannerisms . . . it's too much. I snap. "If you don't want to be her, then why the hell did you let them turn you into—"

"_Let? _You think I _let_ them do this to me?" she cuts me off angrily, jumping to her feet as well and kicking the stool aside. It doesn't surprise me. It's what Tris would have done. "I wasn't given a choice!" She yells, her sapphire eyes blazing, and I can't bring myself to look at her now. I settle with looking over the top of her head as she continues. "I was told that I _was_ Tris; that that was my name! I was told I was shot and saved, but in a coma for a long time and that I had a lot to learn in order to recover. Little did I know that what they were really doing was training me—prepping me to _become_ her in order to turn me _into_ her. I was taught to think like her, act like her, and move like her. I was shown how to take on her mannerisms and the way she talked until all of it was engrained and I was doing it on my own without realizing it."

"Why?" I ask closing my eyes, not wanting to believe any of this is true.

"I told you why." She says with exasperation, and I look at her in time to see her throwing her hands up in a way that is all too familiar to me. "Because they think the best way to get to this new government, would be to get to you first."

And yet she says that it was not a part of war plans. I fight to keep from rolling my eyes as we stand there staring at each other, unspeaking. It hurts to look at her—I don't want to look at her—and yet I find myself hungrily taking in her face, her eyes, and her lips. My heart races each time she meets my eyes, and I feel my anger ebbing away. Finally I sigh. "So when did you learn that you weren't . . ." I can't say her name and I don't need to.

"About six months ago." She whispers, and my brows rise in shock.

"Six months? How long have they been planning this?" Even as I ask it, I remind myself to be careful. I don't know if I can trust what she is saying yet. But then . . . why shouldn't I? Wasn't the fact that she was here, looking the way she does, proof that someone has to be up to something?

"Two years." She says, sitting on the bed and tugging on the sleeves of her sweater the way Tris used to when she was nervous or feeling uneasy. I watch, chewing the inside of my cheek, as she pulls them over her hands and then back down again. When I don't say anything, she continues. "I was kept in what I thought was a hospital and rehabilitation center. I was taught to fight, shoot, and spar—all in the name of rehabilitation, of course. They just wanted to help me remember all the stuff I used to know. Stuff that I was assured was buried deep down and just needed reawakening." Her tone is bitter. "I was shown images of myself—many of them with you by my side."

"That wasn't you." I nearly growl it, though it's not necessarily her that I'm upset with. I just can't help it, though. I hate that she refers to images of Tris, as images of herself. And then there is the fact that the Bureau has pictures of me and Tris in the first place. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that they would have them, but all the same I am. And I don't like it. The girl is unfazed by my tone, though she does look at me sadly.

"I know that now." She whispers, watching me with pleading eyes that has me looking away again as my heart plummets. "Look, do you think this is easy for me?" She demands, forcing my attention. "Because it's not. Try spending a year and a half believing that you're someone else. That everyone you know, or believe you know: Christina, Zeke, Peter, Cara, Caleb, Shauna, all of them—that all these people think you're dead and how amazing it will be to surprise them all. I developed feelings for these people, Four! I developed feelings for you—" She bites down on her lip quickly. It's clear that she did not mean to say that last part, but it's too late and I can feel my eyes go wide in shock. I turn away awkwardly, trying desperately now to put distance between us.

Is she fucking kidding me? I want to yell at her for saying that, but I don't. And I don't want to try to see things from her point of view either. Then there was the fact that she seems to know our friends—or at least their names, anyway. I rake my fingers through my hair. This can't be possible! I want to scream. This girl, she can't be real. "Why are you telling me this?" I breathe with my arms crossed, staring up at the ceiling.

"Because you're acting like you are the only one who is affected by this." She exhales, and I can hear the hitch in her voice. I suddenly feel bad, and I have to remind myself it's not her_—it's not Tris_. But she looks like her. She acts like her, and she moves like her. If it weren't for the black hair, I fear I would have caved the instant she first looked at me. "But you're not." She continues softly. "Imagine learning that everything you believe is true, that the feelings you have, or are having . . . that they're all a lie."

"And just how did you finally learn that?" I ask.

"Matthew." She sighs. "Of course, I knew him when I saw him. But the look on his face was like he'd seen a ghost. I expected this as I knew that everyone thought I was dead." I clench my fists. I want to yell at her to stop referring to herself and Tris as the same person, but I don't. "When I tried telling him, he kept shaking his head, refusing to listen. And then he attacked me. I had a year and a half of training by that time, so I was able to defend myself, but because it was Matthew—someone I knew, or at least, thought I knew . . . I was able to fend him off without hurting him in the process. That's when he told me that I couldn't be Tris; that she was dead. When I told him what I had been told—that I was brought back from the brink of death—he said that it wasn't possible because he saw her body cremated. And that there was no way it could have been switched out as someone was with Tris's body at all times before that."

I walk to the sink with my arms crossed and stare down at it as I take in what she's telling me. I had left the Bureau not long after Tris's death and it had taken me even longer to claim her ashes, but I knew that Matthew was keeping watch over her. He had promised me he would, and he kept me updated at all times. Could she possibly be telling the truth? In the back of my mind, I can hear Tris' voice yelling at me—asking me how it is I can trust this girl and why I'm not more suspicious. But I _am_ suspicious. "And you just believed him?" I ask, stepping on one of the metal foot petals and watching as water spurt forth from the faucet. "I mean, you said it yourself. You spent a year and a half knowing who you were—"

"Of course I didn't believe him." She said. "Not at first."

"So what changed your mind?" I ask glancing back at her.

She stares at me as if contemplating her next words, but she's silent for so long that I start to wonder if she is ever going to answer. Just when she looks like she is about to open her mouth, however, the door opens behind us. I turn to look at Amar who is looking from me and then to her. He shakes his head and I can hear him mumble the word "uncanny" as he stares at her. If only he knew. And then he looks back to me again. "Hey, sorry to interrupt but it's pretty late and a lot of us are getting ready to head out." He says. "The night shift will be here soon, but . . ." he shrugs.

I'm about to argue when the girl cuts in quickly. "No, that's okay. In fact, it's probably a good idea that you go." She looks at me, and my furrowed brows. What the hell does she mean its okay? But she is already continuing. "I think there is a lot you need to process, Four," She says, looking at me with Tris' logical expression and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming, my fists balled in my crossed arms. "You need to decide whether you believe me. I will only continue if you do."

I want to argue with her, too. This was all too much, and she wants to just stop in the middle of it? How was that going to get us anywhere? And then to say that she would only continue if I believe her? How can I possibly believe her, or even start to, without hearing the whole story. But then, haven't I heard the whole story? Everything except how it is she came to believe Matthew anyway. I sigh. Maybe she's right. Maybe this is something I did need to take time on. Besides, I can tell from the expression on her face that she has no intention of continuing tonight. Grudgingly, I nod. It's been a long day and I'm exhausted anyway.

"Alright," I say taking a step toward Amar. My stomach drops and my heart beats erratically as I do. A part of me, a small part of me, feels like I'm leaving Tris behind. But she's not Tris. No matter how much she looks like her—no matter how much I wish she were—nothing would change that. When I reach the door I stop and look back at her, feeling the weight of her gaze on my every being. "What should I call you?" I ask, and she stares at me unsure. In that moment, I'm reminded of when Tris and I first met; how she had stalled when I had asked her her name. Only now, it wasn't because I didn't know this girls name—or what she knew her name as—it was because we both knew that I would refuse to call her by it. "Think about it," I find myself saying despite myself. "You don't get to pick again." I can see in her eyes that she recognizes my words, and I don't know whether to be upset about it or not. She seems conflicted too. It was one of the first things I'd ever said to Tris and she knew this because she had believed for a year and a half, that I had said it to her. Would this ever stop being fucking weird?

"Bri," she says after a moments pause. In my head I can see her picking apart the letters of Beatrice and putting them back together until she got something she liked. Knowing that they are still apart of Tris' name doesn't thrill me, but if what she said about thinking like Tris was true, then I shouldn't be too surprised that that's what she did. It's what Tris did—cutting off the end of her name to create a new one, and I can't help but think that Tris would like the name Bri. It might have even been her second choice had she not thought of 'Tris' first. "Is that okay?" she asks when I don't say anything.

Next to me, I can see the confusion on Amar's face from my peripheral but I only look at the blue eyes in front of me. It still hurts to look at her, but it's getting easier, too. After a moment, I nod. "Yeah," I say. "I can live with that."

"Good." And she sounds truly relieved. "Well . . . thank you for coming to see me. And I mean it, Four. Come back only if you decide you believe me. I'm not going anywhere. If you don't come back . . . I'll understand." I nod again, unsure of what else to do or say. Together with Amar, I leave the girl who was made to be Tris.

Back at my apartment, I toss and turn in bed. Nightmares of both Tris and Bri plague me. They're trying to find me, screaming for my help, but I can't find either of them. It's too dark, too cold, and the wind shooting up from deep within the chasm, makes my footing unsteady. I can hear the rush of water below and I know without looking down that we are high up. That doesn't help either. It isn't until I hear one of them, and I don't know which one, scream, that I know someone has fallen. I wake in a cold sweat, only to fall back to sleep—only to have another nightmare. I send them down the zip-line of the Hancock building, there squeals of laughter following them when the line breaks. I scream myself awake as I watch them disappear below the clouds. When I fall asleep again, they are in the weapons room of the Bureau and pointing guns at one another. Both are claiming to be the real Tris. I have a gun in my hand as well, and I point it at Bri. But I can't do it. I can't shoot her. I point it at myself. As I squeeze the trigger, Tris stands in front of me. _"Think."_ She says.

I bolt upright.

My breathing is jagged as my heart races. I feel sticky from sweat and my body is sore. It takes me a minute to gather my bearings and recognize my room as it comes into focus. The bare walls echo the sparsely furnished room. I only have a bed, dresser and chair in here. The room is small though, so really, that's enough. I look at the blue glass piece that sits on my dresser—the only piece of decoration I have in here, and rub my eyes vigorously. I'm trying to push the memories of the nightmares back, but it's not working. Groaning, I get out of bed and head for the bathroom. As I pound on the wall twice to stop the squeal of the pipes, I watch the water fall from the shower. The sound is similar to the chasm, and from far away I can hear one of them scream again. No! I jerk my head in hopes of jarring loose the sound. I don't want to think about it. I _won't_ think about it. I jump into the shower and wish desperately that the hot water will loosen my muscles. It doesn't, and too soon the water turns cold. I don't get out though and I can feel my skin prickle with goosebumps from the icy cascade. I submerge my head as I stand there, looking at the wall in front of me. _Don't think about it right now_, I tell myself over and over again. _You'll have plenty of time for that_. I get out. Toweling off quickly, I throw on a pair of black jeans and make my way out into living room.

I can smell the coffee before I reach the front room and I can hear the machine bubbling and sputtering. I stop, contemplating returning for a shirt but decide not to bother and instead, I smile to myself as I round the corner of the kitchen and see Christina in there with what minimal cookware I own spread out on the stove. "Good morning, Sunshine." She says without looking up from the eggs she's making. The first time she ever broke in, I had nearly shot her. It was right after my mother had moved out, and I didn't know it was her. She had not been fazed to see me standing there with a gun pointing at her face, and had merely asked if I preferred scrambled or fried. The second time had caught me just as off guard. Now it has happened enough times that I'm used to it. She did it maybe once or twice a month, but never in a way that let me catch on to when she would do it next. Sometimes it was back to back. Other times it was two weeks apart.

"One of these days, I'm just gonna give you a key." I say in way of greeting as I pull down a couple coffee mugs. "Save my door the stress."

"Where's the fun in that?" she asks, sliding the eggs onto the plates sitting next to her on the counter. "Besides," she says, handing me one and taking a mug of coffee in return. I look down at the food and feel my stomach rumble. "I haven't broken your door. Hell, I haven't even put a scratch on it."

I smirk and follow her to the table. Sitting down, I dig into the fresh fruit first. No factions means no one to stop you from coming and going through the gate. Christina often went to visit what used to be Amity, and always came back laden with some of whatever they had harvested for the season. I move on to the eggs. They're good, but then they always are. She is a good cook—and probably the only reason I stayed fed. More than once she has complained about the emptiness of my cupboards, and now she makes a point to stock them when she comes. After I wash down the toast with my coffee, I look up and see her watching me. She has barely touched her food. "What's up?" I ask, setting the mug down.

She shakes her head, a smile playing on her lips. "You're brow looks bad."

"Oh." I instinctively touch it and wince. I swear it's never going to heal. "It looks worse than it is."

"Well that's good, because it looks really fucking horrible," she laughs.

"Fucking Candor," I grin, taking another sip of my coffee.

"Hey! I'm not Candor anymore," she says, doing her best to look affronted. "I'm Dauntless." I smile but say nothing. We both know that now she is neither, as there are no Factions, but it doesn't stop us from joking about it. I watch as she pops a melon into her mouth. The silence isn't uncomfortable between us anymore, but rather peaceful at times. She looks pretty today. She has her dark hair braided and wears a white blouse with a yellow and blue skirt. I think about our brief kiss a couple days ago and wonder if she has thought anymore about it. Part of me feels guilty that I didn't talk to her yesterday, but it wasn't as if I were avoiding her. Besides, I'm pretty sure it is too early in our relationship to start coming up with excuses on why we didn't do something. In fact, we would need to develop _that_ kind of relationship for it to be too early to be too early anyway. I shake my head. What the hell am I thinking?

I should tell her, I realize suddenly. I should tell Christina about Bri. About what she said and who she looks like. Maybe she can even help me figure out if Bri is telling the truth. She was good at that, having been born Candor and all. We say each others names at the same time, and then both of us laugh.

"Go ahead," she says, but I'm already shaking my head.

"No. Ladies first—I insist." I say.

"I just," and then she pauses with uncertainty. When my brows furrow, she smiles and continues. "I wanted to see how you were doing after the other day."

It's a loaded question, and we both know it. And it's not one I'm really sure I know how to answer, either. How am I now that it's been four years since Tris died? How am I after kissing her and being rebuffed? Or how am I after the guilt from that kiss plagued me all night. And then there are the things she doesn't know about. How am I after seeing Caleb after so many years? Or worse yet, how am I after seeing Tris alive and well—only it's not Tris, but a replica? I shake my head. When I look at Christina, I can see in her eyes that she understands (at least part of it anyway), though it doesn't make her look any less sad.

"I'm sorry." It's all she says, and it's more than enough. I sigh and take a drink of coffee. "So what were you going to say?"

I chew on my lip, wondering how to respond. I guess I should start from the beginning.

* * *

_**A/N:**__I hope you like the chapter! It took me a little while to write this one, though it's short. There is a lot that I have planned, and I kept trying to jump the gun, lol. Anyway, thank you to everyone who has reviewed, favorited, or put the story on alert! I truly appreciate it! And thank you to all the anonymous readers as well! Please, if you have time and liked the chapter, let me know. _


	7. Chapter 7

**~Chapter Seven~**

Christina rests her forehead on her entwined fingers, her elbows digging into the table and her eyes closed. She has been sitting like this since I finished telling her everything that happened yesterday. I don't blame her. It was a lot to take in. Getting up, I grab the coffee pot and pour us more coffee. She doesn't move, and her coffee sits untouched. I can hear her rhythmic breathing as I sit back down and take a drink, the hot bitter flavor washing down my throat.

"Christina." I say softly. Though her head doesn't move, her eyes dart upward. "I know what you're—"

"No you don't." her voice is clipped and I look at her with confusion. "You couldn't possibly know what I'm thinking." I'm at a loss for words now as she raises her head to look at me. I hadn't expected her to be thrilled by any means, but I didn't expect her to be angry either. And she definitely seems angry. But then, I had been angry too. I still might be. I'm not sure. Could I fault her for feeling the same way as I did? When I still don't speak, Christina's unwavering eyes find mine. "You're telling me that they're holding a woman that looks, acts, moves, and talks just like Tris. And that the reason she looks, acts, moves, and talks like her, is because she was created to _be_ Tris by the Bureau who have their memories back and are now pissed off at all of us. That you believe her and want to help her? Do I have this correct?"

"I know how crazy this seems." I say, realizing with a sinking stomach that she doesn't believe me.

"Tobias . . ." Her tone is one of cautious pleading, and I stand suddenly as I run my fingers through my hair. My abruptness causes my coffee to spill, but I don't care. How could she not believe me? When have I ever given her a reason not to believe me?

"Look, I didn't want to believe it at first either," I begin. "And I understand that it might have been easier for me to believe than for you, as this girl was right in front of me—I had to constantly look at her face that reminds me of Tris. But I promise you, I'm telling the truth."

"It's been four years, Tobias." She says weakly.

"You saw her!" I practically yell, and her brows shoot upwards. I had thought about this after I got home, though, and I realized it was the only explanation. Before she can ask, I continue. "You told me on the train that you were heading to the Hancock building when you thought you saw Tris. Only it wasn't her, because she had black hair, right? But that her eyes . . ."

"We're exact," Christina whispers, her brown eyes going wide as realization hits her. I sigh with relief and sit back down. Using a napkin, I sop up the spilt coffee. Christina watches but says nothing else.

"This girl . . . she was picked up near the Hancock building." I press on, stuffing the soaked napkin in my mug. "She has black hair . . . it's practically the only thing that's different about her."

"But, Tobais," she whispers, meeting my eyes. "If this is true—if what this girl is saying is true—then do you know what this means?"

"Yeah," I say soberly. "I do."

"We have to tell Johanna," Christina says getting to her feet. "We have to tell her—"

"Don't you want to meet her?" I ask quietly, looking up at Christina, whose eyes flash to mine hesitantly. "I won't lie . . . looking at her will be hard, but . . . I'm not as good as discerning the truth from people as you are. I thought maybe if you meet her—talk to her, that you would be able to tell if she's lying."

Christina takes a breath but doesn't answer. It had been hard enough for her to catch a glimpse of someone who looked like Tris, and it had sent her seeking me out on the train. But to be in the same room, to look at someone who was made to be Tris . . . it wasn't easy. And it won't be an easy decision. "Go get ready." It's all she says, and it's enough. Getting up from the table, I walk slowly to my room. I stop only to squeeze her shoulder as I go.

In my room, I throw on a blue shirt, my belt, and my boots. I grab my knife and attach it to my belt and then run my fingers brusquely through my hair in an effort to comb it. It would have to do. When I come back out, Christina is just putting the last of the dishes away. I don't like that she does my dishes after making me food, but I know better than to say anything. She yelled at me the last time I did. Looking past her, I notice the two coffee mugs still on the table and I grab them and set them in the sink. I would clean them later. Right now, I want to just get this trip over with; the trip that would be mentally wearing on not just me this time, but on Christina as well. Bri told me to only come back if I decided I believe her. I guess that this decided that. Together, Christina and I leave my apartment.

**########**

_"This isn't real, you know," Tris says, as I fight to catch my breath. I look down at her, her blonde hair fanned out around her head on the pillow. I can feel her body pressed against mine, and when I bring my lips to her collarbone, I can taste the salt from her sweat. _

_"I know. But I want so much for it to be," I say, not wanting to roll off her, but instead wanting to keep her pressed under me. I'm afraid the moment I stop touching her, she will disappear. _

_"Wishing it won't make it happen, Tobias." She sighs, her sapphire eyes burning bright. "And right now, you need to think."_

_"You keep saying that, Tris." I reach up and trail a finger along her jaw. "What am I supposed to be thinking about?" She only smiles up at me, and my heart races. Bending down, I press my lips against her as I feel her leg wrap around my waist, drawing me closer._

I bolt upright in bed, my body shaking from her touch. But it wasn't real. It's _not_ real. I drop my head in my hands as anger floods me. Not real. It's never real. I drop backwards onto my pillow and stare up at the ceiling as anguish washes over me. It's always the same when I wake up. It always seems so real that the agony of learning it's not is just too much. All the same, I close my eyes and allow myself to remember the dream. It's cruel, really. Like I'm torturing myself, but it's the closest I will ever get to her again. Maybe this was why I couldn't move on. I sigh, pushing back the blanket and getting up. Throwing on a pair of grey flannel pajama pants, I'm about to walk into the bathroom when I hear a knock at the door. I look longingly at my shower before I go to answer it. Whoever it is, is becoming insistent now. I barely just pull open the door when Christina comes charging through. I have to jump out of the way to keep from being bowled over. I'm about to make a sarcastic comment about how it's nice that she knocked for once, when I see the look on her face.

"What's wrong?" I ask instantly.

"I don't know." She's pacing in my living room. She's wearing a white button up blouse and a blue and yellow skirt that matches well with her skin tone. She looks pretty. But now's not the time to be thinking of that, I chide myself. Not when she's this worried. I watch her, her brows furrowing and relaxing with each step she takes. She shakes her head. "Does everything feel okay to you?" she stops and looks at me with urgency.

I shrug, thinking about the dream last night. "It did until you came flying through my door like a bat out of hell." And she begins pacing again.

"Was I here yesterday?" she asks suddenly, and I frown. I'm not sure if she's messing with me or not. She knows she wasn't, but all the same, she looks like whatever my answer is will decide something of great importance.

"No." I say, crossing my arms. "But then, you know that. Christina, what is this about?"

"Amity." She says as if that should explain everything. Yeah, it doesn't. I cock a brow when she doesn't continue, but she only looks at me. What the hell is going on? Shaking her head, she darts into my kitchen. A second later, I hear her gasp and I follow quickly. Christina stands next to the counter, the cupboard above her pulled open. She turns to look at me, her eyes wide, confused, and . . . was she scared?

"Christina?"

"Look!" She points at my cupboard. I shake my head and look up.

My stomach drops and my heart begins to race. It's full of food. "I don't understand." I breathe, but she's already pulling open other cabinet doors. Those too are full. I walk forward to look at my full cupboards. The only one who stocks my them is Christina. In fact, she's the only reason I even stayed fed, but it has been three weeks since she has taken part in her little breaking and entering escapade that she usually did when she brought me food, so they should not have been this full. When I look at her again, she's leaning against the counter with her arms wrapped around her body protectively. Her wide brown eyes watch me. I shake my head, trying desperately to understand. "When did you—"

"That's the thing, Tobias." She whispers. "I can't remember doing this." She waves at the cupboards. "This morning when I went to the Amity Farms they were all surprised to see me. They said I had just been there yesterday, and that there wasn't anything else they could give me."

"What are . . . wait . . ." My brows furrow as I realize what she's implying. "Yesterday?" It's why she wanted to know if she was here. But she hadn't been! I was sure of it.

Christina paces. "When I told them that I certainly had not been there yesterday, they insisted that I had. They gave me a list of everything I had taken, and . . ." she looks up at my cupboards.

"And it's all there?" I ask, following her gaze. When I look back at her, she's nodding, her chin quivering. I bite on the inside of my cheek. "This doesn't make sense . . . it's not possible." I would remember her coming and stocking my cupboards. Wouldn't I?

"Then tell me what happened, Tobias! Tell me how that food got in there!" Christina is starting to lose it, and I quickly wrap my arms around her, pulling her into me. Her skin is warm against my bare chest. "We lost a day." She whispers.

"No," I breathe into her hair. "That's just not possible. There has to be an explanation for this."

"Then what is it? What could have possibly . . ." Her brown eyes lock onto mine. "I've been going over everything since I left Amity, and I can't think of anything. I sure as fuck can't remember being here and filling your cabinets, but . . ." She looks back up at the cabinets, the fullness of them glaring back at her.

My heart hammers as I take her hand and lead her over to the table. Sitting her down, I grab the coffee pot and take it to the sink to fill with water, and also give myself time to think. But it's as I turn on the faucet, that I notice the two coffee mugs sitting in the sink. One of them has a stained brown napkin shoved into it. I frown. I don't remember putting those there, and yet there they are. I look around my kitchen, my blood racing, as I search for any other signs of use but there is none. I shake my head—something Christina must have noticed.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

I bite on my lip as I turn off the water, the coffee pot full. Taking a breath, I answer. "There are two coffee mugs in the sink." I don't look at her when I say it, and I finish getting the coffee made without saying anything else. As it starts to churn and bubble, I sit down next to Christina and explain. "I've been out of coffee for about a week, so the fact that there are two mugs in the sink . . ."

Christina slaps her hand down hard on the table. "How the fuck did we lose a day?"

"I don't know." I say, still not wanting to believe it. This can't be true. It can't be! How could this even happen? "What's the last thing you remember?"

"Yesterday," but then she stops, her eyes going dark. "At least what I thought was yesterday," She continues bitterly. "I went to work. I was there most of the day, and then I met up with Cara and we had a couple drinks. I mean, there was nothing exciting or out of the ordinary." She looks at me. "What about you?"

I frown. Yesterday I had been with Caleb and Zeke. I'm not sure whether I want her to know this, but I really have no choice. "I went to the Abnegation sector yesterday—me, Caleb, and Zeke." I can see the surprise on her face, but she says nothing. "The cleanup and salvage crew made it to Tris' old house and we decided to look around. After that, I went to work—helped Johanna for a bit, and then . . ." I stop, thinking. I can't really remember, but I know it was late so there's only one real option. I shrug. "And then I came home. Nothing out of the ordinary either." But then I remember the way the Abnegation had responded to Caleb. Their attitudes in general had been anything but ordinary, but I don't think that they would be the cause of us losing a day, so I decide not to mention it.

"Well besides the fact that that wasn't yesterday, that's it?" she asks, watching me intently. "Did anything happen while you were looking around Tris' house?"

"Well, Caleb reminded me that he sucks at just about everything physical." I give a half smile as I remember him falling on his ass, and then needing help up to the second floor. Christina only stares at me, her Candor eyes searching my face and mannerisms for anything that might indicate that I'm lying. There's a difference between lying and omitting information, however, so I have nothing to give away. Finally, she gets up and pours me some more coffee, her own still sitting untouched.

"Well," she says as she sets a mug back in front of me. "I guess we need to find Caleb, Zeke, Johanna, and Cara." My brows rise at her suggestion, but she barely bats an eye. "They were the last ones we were with that we know of."

It makes sense and I nod.

I skip the shower I so desperately want, and change quickly into a pair of black jeans and a blue shirt. Once my boots are on, I put on my belt and attach my knife. In the living room, Christina is standing near the door wringing her hands. We say nothing as we leave the apartment, and I lock up behind us. I see my neighbor watching us from his window, and I wave half-heartedly. He's frowning, and I wonder if it's because he thinks Christina stayed the night. Though she didn't, I can see how he might assume she had. He waves back and then disappears behind his curtain. Weird.

Christina says nothing we make our way toward the Hub. We had never expressed going there first, but it seems like the most logical place to go. I feel strange. I don't know whether I'm angry, worried, or confused. Maybe all three? Or maybe there wasn't a name for the feeling you get when you find out that you lost a day. I try to think how it could be possible. Is it possible? I would think maybe I'm crazy, but I didn't even know about it until Christina showed up and told me, so what does that say about me? It isn't long before we're standing in front of the tall building. Christina walks through first.

"Tobias!"

I look up to see Johanna running toward me. Her hair has been thrown up haphazardly, and several flyaway strands are sticking out. Her red top is wrinkled.

"Thank God you're here!" She says coming to a stop in front of me. When she sees Christina, she nods politely at her. "Both of you—my office. Now."

"Wait," I call out as she turns to leave. I can see that she's in a rush, but I don't care. I have more pressing matters than whatever she has going on. "We need to talk to you about—"

"The missing day?" Johanna replies, her eyes burning into mine. I can feel my mouth pop open in shock. I look at Christina, whose eyes are wide as well. "Yeah, that's what I thought." she says, looking at both of us. "My office, now."

None of us speak as we make our way to the elevator. And we still don't speak as Johanna pushes the correct button and the elevator starts. I'm not a big fan of elevators. I use them, but I don't like to. Maybe if I wasn't aware of the black abyss that was below us, getting deeper the higher we went, it wouldn't be so bad. I shudder and shove the thought aside. The elevator comes to a stop, and before we know it we're sitting in the chairs in Johanna's office watching as she takes her own seat.

"So what's—" Christina begins, but Johanna puts up a hand to stop her.

"I asked the others to be here, but they couldn't make it." Johanna says, looking at me. I know immediately who the others are; the others who help her govern New Chicago. I nod, waiting for her to continue. She takes a breath. "We received word from the Bureau that there was an accident with one of their planes nearby, and one of the new serums they were working on was in it. We were told this serum works a lot like the memory serum, in that it makes you forget. Unlike the memory serum, however, it's only supposed to take away about twenty-four hours or so. That said, it was a prototype so the results may vary . . . and it seems not everyone was affected. So that's lucky, I guess."

I sit there quietly, my mind reeling. What was the Bureau doing making a twenty-four hour memory serum in the first place? And where were they shipping it to that it was on a plane? All these questions running through my head and yet none of the answers I think of make sense. "How many were affected?" I finally ask.

"We're not sure yet." Johanna sighs, slumping in her chair.

"Is there an antidote?" I ask, looking at Christina. She appears almost relieved. I try to be relieved, too. Knowing that it was just an accident should make me feel better, but those questions still plague me.

"No." Johanna replies. "They're working on one right now. They weren't expecting this serum to get out so they didn't plan ahead."

At this, even Christina frowns. Since when weren't the Bureau prepared? I can't hold back my questions anymore. "Why are they making a new serum?" I blurt out. "And why was it on a plane?"

To my surprise, Johanna actually smiles. "Now this, I made sure to ask." She says. "Trust me, those questions were the first ones that left my lips upon talking to them. The serum is for the rebels in the Fringe." When I raise a brow, Johanna continues. "There have been a few rebels that they have caught and questioned. They were able to learn plans for riots, dates, and times from these people. The problem though, was that upon letting them go they ran back and told their leaders. So everything the Bureau would plan in order to stop these rebels, based on the information gathered, was pointless. So they started working on this serum so that after questioning them, they could give it to them and then let them go. That way they wouldn't remember even being captured, let alone what information they gave away."

I'm reluctant to admit the brilliance of this idea. And it is brilliant. But brilliant or not, it was still taking a day away from someone. And that still didn't explain what it was doing on the plane, either—something I make sure to point out.

"From what I understand," Johanna begins. "They were taking a batch over to some of their guys in the Fringe. They were planning on testing it, but as you are now aware . . . the plane never made it."

"Why not test it back at the lab with a captured rebel?" I instantly ask.

Johanna gives me a weary smile. "I don't know, Tobias. My guess is that they didn't have a rebel at the time. Look, I know that you are suspicious by nature, but trust me when I say that I am not the only one who has looked at this from every angle possible. Everything sounds legit. They even offered to let us come to the Bureau and have a look around in order to assure us that this was not done on purpose, not that we would have any reason to believe that it _was_ done on purpose. Where do you think the others are? Besides, we've talked to many of those that the serum didn't affect. They assured us that nothing out of the ordinary happened. At least, not before everything went down."

I stand and begin pacing. I don't like it, but I also have no reason not to believe Johanna. "And are you sure these people that remember . . . the ones that the serum didn't touch . . . that they're telling the truth?"

At this, Johanna's eyes become hard as she watches me pace. "Well . . . I can't account for everyone, but I know that _I'm_ telling the truth." She says, and I look at her with surprise. "Unless, of course, you think I'm a liar?" I shake my head no, still looking at her with wide eyes.

"You weren't affected?" Christina asks.

"I was not." Johanna sighs. "And yesterday was no different than any other day. Or so I had thought. It wasn't until a horribly loud sound filled the air, and people started dropping that all hell broke loose."

"Dropping?" Christina echoes.

"Yeah," Johanna breathes. "It was . . . like nothing I've ever seen. It wasn't long after that that the Bureau contacted us. They were surprised that so many of us remained unaffected though."

"Surprised or disappointed?" I retort, more as a question to myself. All the same, Johanna answers it.

"Maybe both," she shrugs. "Though they hadn't meant to test it on us, I'm sure they were no less disappointed to see that it hadn't worked on everyone. Anyway," she adds, "those of us who weren't affected worked the rest of the day trying to get those that were back to their houses; if we knew where they lived. Luckily you both were here at the time so Zeke and I were able to get you both home."

"We were here yesterday?" I ask quickly. It's weird not knowing. I also catch that she mentioned Zeke. This is good, cause it means he wasn't affected either.

"Yep. You had both come here with urgent news when it all happened." She smiles sadly.

Urgent news? My brows furrow as I try to remember what I would have needed to tell her that was urgent, or why Christina would be with me. I look at Christina. Her brown eyes are watching mine, looking just as stumped as I am. Nothing had happened that I was aware of; that I would consider urgent. "Did we tell you what the urgent news was?" I ask.

Johanna shakes her head. "No. Though I'm guessing it had something to do with the Arborn Station. It would certainly explain why Zeke was with you."

"And Zeke . . . he didn't know?" I press.

Now she looks uncomfortable. Christina notices this too, and leans forward. "Look," she says. "We're just trying to get back a day. It's not uncommon to ask questions about what we were doing, is it? And besides, if you're going to lie then you should stop touching your ring before doing so. It's a give away."

Johanna contemplates Christina, and for a second I think that she's going to yell at her for calling her a liar. Honestly, I'm surprised that Christina went there. But regardless of the fact that the factions no longer exist, she was still born Candor, so I trust she is telling the truth when she calls out someone for lying. I look at Johanna expectantly. "All right." She finally says. "He said that you guys met up as you were leaving the Arborn Station. That the other day there was a mishap in the Abnegation sector while you were there with Caleb—" She looks pointedly at me. "—and that one of them, the abnegation, showed up at the station. He thinks it may have had something to do with that."

I feel my stomach sink, as Christina glares at me. The difference between lying and omission when you're the one being told, or not told, said lie or omission is absolutely nothing. But then, could that really be true? What could have possibly happened that would have one of the Abnegation seeking out the police? Hadn't Zeke told me that they had made it clear that they won't follow our laws? I can feel my anger ebbing away as my curiosity takes over. I don't like what happened with the Bureau. It seems careless really, and I would need to make sure to contact Matthew and yell at him. But all things considered, I need to figure out what happened yesterday and how the Abnegation fit into it. I look at Christina. I also need to figure out how she became a part of it.

"I know that look," Johanna says suddenly, and my eyes snap to her face. "I know you want nothing more than to run off and figure out what's going on, but I need you here, Tobias." I have to lock my jaw to keep from retorting. Doesn't she understand how important this is? Of course not. She's not the one that lost a day. "You're a government official," she continues when I say nothing. "And right now, there are a lot of scared and confused people. I need you to help me calm them down and explain things. I can't do this alone."

I know she's right, though I don't like it. Closing my eyes, I nod.

Outside the office, Christina and I say nothing as I walk her to the elevator. At the same time that I press the down button, I feel her warm hand slip into mine and squeeze. I jump, nearly ripping my hand from hers. I've held her hand before, but always for a reason; to help her up, to give her support, that kind of stuff. Never just to hold it. I look down at our entwined fingers, thinking back to the train. Even then it was to help her jump from the moving car. When I look back up at her face, she gives a half-smile.

"Weird, huh?" she asks, and I don't know if she's talking about us having lost a day, or her holding my hand.

"Yeah." It's the truth for both.

"Don't worry, Tobias," she says, glancing around and then leaning in toward me. "While you're here, I'll find Zeke. I'll go to the Arborn Station, too—see what I can figure out about the Abnegation."

"Christina, about the mishap Johanna mentioned," I begin, but she stops me.

"You can tell me later." She says. "There's not time now." As if on cue, the elevator doors slide open. Christina does not get on right away. She only looks down at our joined hands. I don't know if I should hug her or what. Is that maybe what she's waiting for? Finally, she sighs and pulls away from me. "As soon as I hear something, I'll let you know."

I nod, watching as the doors close and Christina disappears. I only stand there for a minute before I turn and head to my office. Time to deal with the affected people. And the Bureau.

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_**A/N: **I apologize now for any grammatical errors. I wanted to put this chapter up before I went to work (which is in 10 minutes and I still have to get dressed), so I didn't proof read it as well. All the same I hope you like it! Please review and let me know!  
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	8. Chapter 8

_**A/N:** So I want to give a huge thank you to everyone supporting me and this story! That said, I need to let you know that this chapter was unexpected for me. I saw this going a completely different way, but then it turned out this way. Also, this chapter is Rated M for language and content. So you've been warned. Hope you like it! Please let me know! _

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**~Chapter Eight~**

It takes me most of the day to help Johanna deal with the public, and we still aren't done yet. Those that had not been helped to make it home, waking instead on a sidewalk or at work, were coming into the Hub in droves; and it seems they made up a good majority of our population. They demand answers, and I can't blame them. Then there's the few that are only just learning about what happened _because_ they made it home. They had not noticed at first, that anything was wrong. Like me, they woke suspecting nothing until they were told by a family member or friend that had not been affected. Due to the amount of people that were storming the Hub, an official meeting was called that everyone of New Chicago could to attend. The meeting was being held in the same place as the Choosing Ceremony used to be, before the world went to shit and the Faction bowls were destroyed.

Many of the people are angry, and much of that anger is unfortunately because of fear. Some people can handle their fear; turning it into a controlled anger that they can use to benefit themselves. But most people . . . well, most people are irrational idiots due to fear. The idea of losing a day was understandably terrifying—hell, I'm still not happy about it either—but some of these people were just being ridiculous. I have to hand it to Johanna, though. She handles herself well amongst the yelling. I watch as she gives everyone a turn to say whatever it is they want to say, or to yell at her, while I'm stuck biting back on retorts and the urge to elbow someone in the jaw from time to time. Johanna remains exceedingly calm and relaxed. I wonder more than once if she ate the Amity bread before this meeting.

"It's easy for you to say!" someone yells from the back of the room, and I look up. "You have your memory! How do we know something didn't happen yesterday that you all are covering up?"

Johanna looks at the man who spoke and smiles. "You must have moved here from the Fringe," she says, and then her eyes sweep over the rest of the crowd in front of her. "And it's true, I wasn't affected." She continues. "But Tobias was. Like you, he woke not knowing what was going on. If we were going to do this to cover anything up, do you really think we would do it to him? An incredibly respected Government official?"

At this, everyone looks at me and whispers fill the room. I look at Johanna and see her staring expectantly at me. It was instantly clear what she wanted me to do, and I sigh inwardly. The idea of public speaking, especially in front of such a large group, doesn't scare me by any means, but it's still not my favorite thing to do. I could yell at initiates without batting an eye, but that was different—that was meant to help by pulling out their weaknesses in order to strengthen them. Here, these people wanted comfort and understanding; not insults and condescension. Getting up, I see Johanna nod at me as she takes a seat. I nod back. Looking out at the large crowd, it hits me how so very different everything really has become. It's a sea of colors. No longer is each person separated by Factions and wearing their mandatory color. In fact, once nearly invisible, it's the Abnegation who stands out now. Huddled together, and slightly away from everyone else, the Abnegation stand quietly near the stairs—like a gray cloud at the end of a brightly lit rainbow. Susan is right up front, her eyes heavy on me. Her cropped blonde hair shines under the overhead light, and she's wearing what I am sure might be a dark grey dress or skirt underneath a tight black button up coat that goes down to her knees. She's the only one in her group wearing black. I clear my throat.

"I woke this morning, unaware that anything was wrong," I begin. And then I launch into what happened to me this morning, right down to getting here and the conversation I had with Johanna upon arriving. I omit the part about the Abnegation. "Like you all, I was suspicious at first, but I trust Johanna. I trust that this was just an accident and nothing more." When I finish, the whispers erupt again. I see some who are nodding, looking decidedly more relaxed and relieved, and some that are still suspicious. Nothing we say will quell that fear. I look back at Susan, and she nods at me. Her short blonde hair makes me think of Tris and I lock my jaw as I look at her. She's smiling—though it's a tight smile that doesn't reach her eyes. I don't know what she means by it, but I want to talk to her. I want to ask her if she was affected, and if she knows who showed up at the station yesterday. But it seems I won't get that chance since they are all turning to leave now. Damn it!

I jump as I feel a hand on my shoulder. Turning, I see Johanna, her eyes shining. "Thank you, Tobias." She says. I nod in response and take my seat. "As it is getting late, I will go ahead and call an end to this meeting," she says to the crowd. "But, I will stay late tonight. Anyone that is still not reassured, and would like to come speak to me is more than welcome. That said, please do so in a mature manner and be respectful of one another when waiting your turn. Remember, you are not the only one going through this."

I get up as she turns back toward me. Behind her the room is a mess of people getting up. Some work their way toward the exits while others stand in small circles discussing what they were told. "Do you want me to stay with you?" I ask. I'm not sure if I like the idea of her being alone in a room with someone who's being irrational.

Johanna smiles and shakes her head. "No, that's not necessary. But thank you."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." Seeing the worry on my face, she smiles. "But thank you. Besides, I'm sure you're eager to find Christina and figure out what's going on with the Abnegation. And maybe when you figure it out, you'll tell me what's going on."

I nod. I wouldn't deny that even if I could. I look at the stairs that Susan disappeared down. "Okay, it's a deal." And I take off. Though the staircase is full of people leaving, I still manage to make it down quickly by shoving rudely past people. As I run out the front door, I turn in the direction of the Abnegation sector, but I don't have to go far. I barely make it a block when I hear my name called out. Stopping abruptly, I turn back toward the alley I just passed. Susan is there with two others. I recognize one instantly—Michael—the other, I don't remember or don't know.

"Susan," I say in way of greeting as I approach her. Now that I'm not being distracted by a mob of people wanting to get to Caleb, I can really focus on her and I realize that her hair is the only thing that resembles Tris. Susan's eyes are much too narrow, and her cheekbones much too high. Her height is similar, though she might be a little taller. I see now that she's also wearing knee high boots. This is given away by the slit in her dark grey dress—an outfit I wouldn't bat an eye to see on a Dauntless, but an Abnegation?

"I had a feeling you would wish to talk with me." She smiles. "When you looked at me back there, I could see questions burning in your eyes."

She's definitely intuitive. "Well you're feeling was right . . . though I wonder if you know why." I say, crossing my arms. "Were you affected by the serum?"

Susan stares at me speculatively, the smile never leaving her face. "I was not." She finally says. "But as _you_ were supposedto be, I can only wonder why it is you would feel the need to speak with me at all?" and I can hear the accusation in the words, her meaning clear: If I had been affected, how could I possibly have questions for her as I should remember nothing from yesterday that needed discussing?

"Are you sure you weren't once meant for Erudite?" I ask with a sly grin, knowing that she might take the question as an insult and not caring. But she only smiles back, and I have to admire her tenacity.

"I'll never know." She says quietly, her eyes flashing. "I never got my Choosing Ceremony."

This stalls me. I have never once thought about those that never got, and would never get, to find out where they would have belonged. For me, the Choosing Ceremony had been a day of freedom, and that day would always be one of significance to me. It was the day I broke free from my father. And now, looking at Susan, I wonder how many kids this new society denied that opportunity to. How many kids got stuck staying with their abusive parents because they will never be given the option to leave? Was Susan one of those kids? I look at her—the hard set of her eyes, her guarded body language. We can spot our own, I realize.

"I'm sorry." I say softly, and I hope she hears the weighted meaning behind it. But her eyes only watch me without expression. Finally, she nods.

"It's nothing you had any control over," she says with a slight shrug. "I will not allow you to take the blame."

I say nothing. I'm not sure it's her choice whether I blame myself or not. All the same, I don't argue. Instead, I choose to try to refocus the conversation. "I was told by those that were unaffected, that I was at the Arborn Station when someone from your Fact—group showed up." I begin, watching as Michael and the other guy look at each other without surprise. Susan merely cocks a brow at me, listening. "Now, I have it on good authority that you guys refuse to follow the rules and laws of our new society, so I guess my question is: what would one of your people be doing at a place they put no stock in?"

"Well, as you don't remember . . . tell me why I should be so inclined as to tell you?" she says, almost sounding bored. It's her eyes that give away the lie in her tone, though. They watch me intently as she continues. "The last time we spoke, you were putting your allegiance with Caleb Pryor—the man who got his sister killed."

"I am aware of what he is responsible for." My tone is on edge, now. I don't need people reminding me how Tris died—I was already very aware of it. I take a breath, calming myself. "And I wouldn't go so far as to say he has my allegiance. I'm no more his fan than you are, but I couldn't let you all slaughter him either. I told you my reason for that yester—the other day."

"You still haven't gotten used to the idea of missing a day . . . have you?" Susan asks her tone softer as she picks up on my mistake immediately.

"Has anyone?" I blurt irritably. I have to take another calming breath. "And speaking of yesterday, you never answered my question."

"Nor will I." She stares at me unwavering, and I have to choke back on my surprise. "At least not here. We do not trust areas outside our Faction—because it _is_ a Faction, Four, whether your '_New Chicago'_ likes it or not. And if you wish to hear the answer, you should come see me at my house."

I stare at her unblinking. Is she serious? "You have nothing to fear here, ya know."

"Yeah, we thought that once before, too." She says.

I chew on my lip, staring at her. The blow was a low one, and she knows it. And she doesn't care. She only stares back, and I wonder just how bad it was for her that she has become this hard in just a few short years. I try to remember the girl I met just over four years ago—the young girl that had been saved from the Abnegation slaughter by Caleb. That girl had been meek and forgettable. This girl . . . this girl demanded your attention. But should I go with her? She felt no ill will toward me. In fact, she had invited me back; told me I was welcome anytime. "All right," I finally say. "Lead the way."

Susan does not show surprise at my desire to go right now, nor does she try to encourage a different time. She only grins and nods. And I'm not sure I like the grin. Shaking away the unease I feel, I follow her beckoning finger as she walks away. As we walk, Michael keeps throwing angry glances at me and I wonder why he's so threatened by me. As far as I know, he has no reason to feel threatened, unless, of course, he's worried that I will beat the shit out of him. Maybe I should let him know that I mean him no harm right now. Or maybe I should clock him in his eye for glaring at me again. The other guy says nothing the whole time but checks our surroundings like he thinks we'll be attacked at any moment. They're her bodyguards, I realize and I look at Susan, wondering what she did to gain such respect that people were willing to protect her. Catching my blatant staring, she smiles and winks. I look away quickly, the uncharacteristic move catching me off guard.

It isn't long before we reach the Abnegation sector. I didn't want to come back here, and I'm not happy I came. As we make our way through the neighborhood of identical grey houses, I can't help but to look in the direction of Tris' house. I can't see it, but just knowing it's there makes me . . . I can't explain it. I shake my head. I can feel Susan's eyes on me now, and I purposely keep my own eyes forward, as this is not something I want to discuss. Soon we stop in front of a nondescript grey house, and the two men swoop on Susan as she unlocks the door.

"Thank you," Susan says, looking at them both. "But I am okay now. I really doubt Four is here to attack me. Nor do I think he will."

I cock a brow as Michael turns to glare at me for the hundredth. "Are you sure?" He asks, turning back to look at her. "I don't know if—"

Susan rocks forward and plants a kiss on Michael's lips. "I'm sure."

He nods, though he still doesn't look happy. It's not until the other guy takes him by the arm, that I have to move out of the way to allow them to pass by me. When I look back at Susan, she is watching Michael go with a smile, her head shaking softly. Would she ever stop surprising me? She turns and disappears inside without another word. She doesn't necessarily invite me in, but I take the open front door as invitation enough and walk through. I have to bite back my surprise. Her house is an array of paintings hanging on the wall, and each one is darker than the next; a woman with smeared mascara and blood red lips screaming, a black and grey building on fire. And I'm pretty sure this is a painting of a dead guy. I cock my head, looking at the troublesome canvas.

"Do you like it?"

I jump slightly at her voice being so close behind me, but I don't turn to look at her. I stare instead at the dead guy; his dark body in a frozen fetal position. His green lifeless eyes contain the only color in the work, like the lips of the screaming girl. I have to admit, as dark and disturbing as it is, there is also a sort of beauty to it as well. "Did you paint it?" I ask already knowing the answer.

"Yes." She breathes from behind me, and I nod. I don't bother to elaborate. There was just no sense in trying to explain that I'm still trying to comprehend how they can claim to be maintaining a Faction that is nothing like it once was. When I turn around, I nearly bump into her. I hadn't realized she was standing so close. I feel my heart leap into my chest as I take a quick step back. "Come on," she smiles.

From behind her, I watch as the coat slips from her shoulders, revealing the black razorback tank-top she's wearing underneath. It also turns out that it's a dark grey skirt, and that the slit on the side goes a lot higher than I had originally thought. She tosses the coat carelessly on the couch as she moves through the room. There is no other way to describe the way she looks right now other than sexy. I close my eyes and run my hand through my hair. Get your shit together—you're here for a reason, I remind myself. I follow her into the kitchen.

"Would you like a drink?" She asks, moving toward a small cabinet. "My brother gave me this bottle of wine, here."

"Wine?" I echo. "You want to drink alcohol?"

"You don't?" she counters, her brows raising as she looks at me. "You, who found out that you lost a day—that can't remember shit from the last twenty-four hours because of something the Bureau may or may not have done? Not even one glass?"

How can I argue with that logic? I reluctantly smile. "You have a point." I concede. I take a seat at her table as she pulls down two glasses and begins to fill them up to the brim. I take mine and drink half of it before she can even sit down, the tart berry flavor pleasant on my tongue. Susan smirks and returns to collect the bottle she left on the counter, setting it in between us on the table instead. I take it and refill my glass.

"It was me." Susan says suddenly, and I look at her with an arched brow as I take another drink. I can feel my heart rate slowing, and I no longer feel uneasy. The drink was a good idea. Seeing the confusion on my face, she continues. "At the Arborn Station . . . it was me."

"You?" I ask surprised, my glass frozen at my lips. "Why would you have been there?"

"Now _that_ I wish I could tell you," she says, taking a drink of her own wine. Did she mean to lick her lips like that?

"What do you mean? I thought you were unaffected." I say, my brows furrowing as I take another drink. Susan only smiles though.

"I did say that." She agrees. "And for the most part, it's true—I'm not missing a full day. What I _am_ missing, is about two hours."

"Should I bother guessing what two hours you're missing?" I ask dryly.

"I'm pretty sure you already guessed it." She replies. "What I can tell you is this: I went to the Station with the intent to warn you, Four. Not all is what it seems inside your trusted society. What I can't tell you, is what occurred after that. I remember seeing you, and then I remember waking up. Many of the Dauntless—or police officers if that's what you prefer to call them now—were still unconscious. You, however, were gone; as was the girl you were with."

I take another drink. "That doesn't make sense." I say carefully, gauging her reaction. "I was told that me and Christine were at the Hub when the plane crashed. But you're saying that you saw me before you blacked out. If we all blacked out at the same time, then either I was at the Station when it happened and Johanna lied to me, or you're the one lying."

Susan is not bothered at all by what I'm suggesting. She merely shrugs. "Have you ever known an Abnegation to lie?" She asks.

"Yes." I reply without missing a beat. "He lied every day, so I do not think you, or your people, are above it. So now, what I'm really left to wonder is: who stands to gain the most from lying?"

"Well," Susan says, lowering her drink. Why was she smiling? "I don't know what to tell you. That is something you will have to figure out on your own."

"What did you want to warn me about?" I ask. She really did have smoldering eyes. With each blink, her lashes swept her cheeks. "What did you want to warn me about?" Wait, did I just repeat myself? I look at the nearly empty glass of wine. All in all, I maybe had a glass and a half—could it really been effecting me this much? I've drunk way more than this and been fine, I'm sure. But then, why am I complaining? I was having a glass of wine with a sexy woman. Did it really matter that I felt good? Besides, why was I always suspicious of every pleasant thing that happened to me? Why couldn't I just enjoy it for once? You know what? I _should_ enjoy it. I will enjoy it!

"—and that you need to be careful when dealing with them."

"Dealing with who?" I ask, realizing that Susan has been speaking this whole time. I shake my head. "So are you and Michael . . . you know, a couple?"

"What?" Her brows rise in surprise, but the slight confused grin on her face shows that she is not offended by the question. She stares at me curiously and I wonder if I have something on my face. It would be horrible to have something on my face when a pretty woman is sitting in front of me. I touch my face curiously, feeling the stubble from having missed a shave but nothing more. Hopefully I got it.

"You and Michael—Michael and you." I laugh now. Where did the laugh come from? I decide I like the laugh. I should laugh more often. "You kissed him."

"Yes." She says, she's laughing now too and occurs to me how much that grin lights up her face. "And no. It's not serious, but I don't know how else to explain it." She scrunches her face in a cute way as she thinks, and I contemplate poking her nose. "He provides me with comfort when I need it."

"Oh . . . well, that's nice." I say sincerely. Everyone should have someone to comfort them when they need it. Susan just laughs, and I watch mesmerized by her smile. "You know, you're really very beautiful when you're not scowling." Some part of me thinks that I'm being too bold. The other part of me washes it away with more wine.

"Oh?" She grins. "I will have to remember that. And just for the record, you're pretty sexy yourself, Four"

I grin at the compliment. In fact, I can't remember the last time I was given such a compliment. You know? Why don't more people complement each other? I wonder. "You should remember that." I say earnestly as I reach forward and push back a loose strand of hair that has fallen in her face. She freezes—her eyes wide as my fingers brush her skin.

"Or maybe," she says burying her face in her glass to take a drink. "We should discuss the Bureau now that you know what going—"

"Oh Bureau-Schmureau," I mumble, waving my hand in the air to dismiss them. Why would we want to talk about the Bureau when we could be talking about things of interest? Like her. And me. And what we could be doing. "So . . . if you like to be comforted . . . I could . . . you know. . ."

"Offer me comfort?" she whispers, a slight smile on her lips. "I don't think I would have ever expected this from you."

I laugh. That's me; full of surprises. "Yes well, I never would have expected an Abnegation leader to be wearing a tight slitted skirt and knee-high boots. Or to be hot. I guess we're both just full of surprises."

Susan gets up, her chair scraping across the floor as she pushes it back. It only takes her seconds to approach me and to straddle my lap. "You have a good point."

Her lips are hot on mine and I accept them fervently, reveling in the intensity of the kiss. I grab her jaw with both hands, holding it still as my lips explore her face. It's new to me, and it's been so long since . . . I feel her tugging at my shirt and I raise my arms as she slips it over my head and tosses it to the floor. Taking Susan firmly in my arms, I stand up and lay her across the kitchen table; shoving aside everything as I do. We both only laugh at the sound of breaking glass, and then don't give it a second thought. My lips are on her throat now, and she moans as I bite her collarbone softly. I can feel her pulling me tighter against her, and I run a hand along her thigh and down to her knee. I hitch it against my side. As my other hand slips under her shirt and glides along the planes of her stomach, I feel a light tug on my jeans and I smile down at her.

"Are you sure?" I breathe, still wanting to be a gentleman but wanting to ravish her at the same time. When she nods, I lean back and begin helping her unbuckle my belt. "Thank you for the wine," I say coyly. She's watching me as I remove the belt loop by loop, her eyes full of desire, and my heart skips a beat with how erotic this is. I can only smile.

"You're welcome," she laughs. "My brother is from Amity. He sent me it awhile ago, but I'm glad I saved it now."

My hand freezes as something tries to break into my happy bubble. I don't like things breaking into my happy bubble, though. Why can't I just be happy? I look down at her, the slit in her skirt showing off her leg fully now, her breast heaving underneath the thin black material. Something is wrong. But then, why did something have to be wrong? I look down at the broken glass on the floor, the wine staining the linoleum. Her brother had made that wine. Her brother from Amity. Amity also made the special bread. And then I remember Tris as she came up to me in the Amity fields all those years ago—the goofy grin on her face, her incredibly good mood, and her blatant and unabashed desire to have me right then and there. I can hear her telling me to think, now. I shake my head, trying to clear it as I take a step back.

"What's wrong?" Susan asks suddenly, sitting up.

"Amity." I say and immediately realize she needs more of an explanation. "They make a serum that . . . it makes you feel . . . good. Like ridiculously good." I shake my head. "I think there was some in that wine." I'm still fighting with myself. The me that just wants to be happy, that wants to sleep with Susan, is telling me to shut my face and just let myself relax for once. The other me, the unhappy me—the real me—is not listening. I take another step back as I refasten my belt. I'm not sure how I'm managing to win this battle with the serum. Tris had had to wait until hers had worn off, and she had been what they once called "genetically pure." So either I was getting better at rejecting serums, or I was just _that_ determined to shit on my own happiness.

"Serum?" Susan looks down at the broken glass. "Oh who cares what was in it as long as we feel good? Don't you want me?" she says this with almost a pout that sends my heart pounding.

_Yes._ I want to say, but I only look at her. She's still under the serums influence, and this just isn't right. "I'm sorry," I say, picking up my shirt and putting it back on. "I can't. It wouldn't be right."

Her brows rise as she stares at me. "Are you really going to cock-block yourself?"

Ouch, that hurt.

I look at the astonishment on her face, and let out a low chuckle. "I'm going to have to." I smile. "Thank you for inviting me in. Please understand that I am doing this for you as well, and try not to be mad at me for too long." I remember how upset Tris got with me for not giving in to her advances and my smile widens. I watch Susan for only a second longer, but when she says nothing, I make my way out of her house and into the night quickly.

The cool fresh air and the brisk walk help to clear my head, and I start to realize with embarrassment and guilt just what I had done, and what I had nearly done. And had I really said "Bureau-Schmureau?" What the hell is wrong with me? It isn't until I get home, however, that I realize that she never told me what it was that she had wanted to warn me about—what her reason for going to the Arborn station had been. So that whole trip was pointless. That's great . . . just fucking great. Or maybe . . . maybe she did, and I just wasn't paying attention. I lay in bed, my arms wrapped around my pillow as I try to remember. Even in the dark, I can just make out the yellow bird on my pillowcase. Think, I tell myself.

_Think._


End file.
